Perceptions
by 1701dragonflies
Summary: She isn't sure when the change comes but ... her knowing him better, or knowing him at all, changed her perception of him. And of herself. Moments between Andrea and Daryl that slip between the cracks, Seasons 1 and 2. I own nothing!
1. First Impressions

Methods of Perception.

Summary: She isn't sure when the change comes but ... her knowing him better, or knowing him at all, changed her perception of him. And of herself. Moments between Andrea and Daryl that slip between the cracks, Seasons 1 and 2. I haven't seen S1 in a while so forgive me if I'm a little rusty.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my imagination. Rated M just to be safe.

###

First Impressions.

They're making their way back to the makeshift camp that their unlikely rescuer – a jovial senior called Dale - has apparently set up outside Atlanta when he gives them what he terms "a friendly piece of advice." In Andrea's opinion that usually means its anything but, but there's nothing usual about the situation that they're in.

"Watch out for the Dixon boys." He says as they move quietly and quickly through the nightmarish network of abandoned and burned-out cars and buildings, threading their way through the ever-thickening forest. She thinks that they might be heading south-west but what does she know? She can't remember the last time she used a compass and her idea of a map is what's on her GPS system which crashed days ago along with the cell phone network, the internet and the radio. Either way, they're heading out of Atlanta and into rural Georgia.

"The Dixon boys?" Amy asks loudly, her voice sounding much too loud in the quiet, still surroundings.

"Merle and Daryl Dixon." Dale says.

"They don't sound too tough." Andrea says lightly, although she has a feeling that the opposite is probably true.

"Well, they are." Dale says seriously. "We fell in with them awhile back. They're hunters, trackers ... truth be told, if we didn't need their skills, I'd have parted company with them a long time ago." He looks scared admitting this, as though he's saying something out loud that no-one wants to admit.

Andrea doesn't quite know what to make of that. Surely with the end of their civilisation coming it would be better to stick together? But then ... in her line of work she's seen exactly what human beings are capable of doing to each other. So she just nods and says nothing.

"What's so wrong with them?" Amy asks, and Andrea fights the urge to roll her eyes. She's forgotten just how _young_ Amy is, sometimes, not just in years but in youth, inexperience, naiveté. She hasn't seen enough of the world to know that most of the time, it sucks, and that suckiness isn't confined to the pages of the newspapers or what she sees on CNN. Amy doesn't, _can't _yet understand what Dale's saying beneath his words, the silent warning he's issuing to the two young women about two men in his party. She's got no idea what he's talking about because he hasn't said anything about them, not really. But its what he's not saying that's what scares Andrea. Once again she debates politely thanking Dale for saving their lives but insisting that they'll really be much better off alone. But then she looks at her sister's pretty, eager face and relents. She isn't like Andrea, who's happiest in her own company. She needs people, needs community. And Dale's offering her that. So they'll stay.

Dale fidgets slightly as he slows down, his sharp eyes alert despite his years. Andrea's spent the past few hours trying to work out just how old he is. She had initially thought maybe seventy but with every step they take she's shaving off numbers like there's no tomorrow. By the time they arrive at wherever they're going she'll have pegged him as a nubile teenager.

"You'll see." He murmurs. They're at a highway now, abandoned cars and suitcases spilling across the road like a maze of traps and possible nightmares. Stepping out from the relative safety of the bushes and shrubbery isn't advisable but Andrea gets the sense that making the crossing is intrinsic to getting to where they need to go.

Dale goes first, gesturing that Andrea and Amy stay hidden while he scopes the place out. Amy's eyes widen when she sees Andrea withdraw the pistol her dad gave her when she left for college over ten years ago. She'd never had cause to use it until recently. There's only a few rounds left in it but it's saved her and Amy's lives so whoever tries to stop her from using it will have to pry it from her cold, dead hands.

Dale's halfway across the highway before he gestures that they begin to join him, and they slowly but surely begin to pick and thread their way through the abandoned cars which litter the highway like discarded toys. Several of them have doors either completely gone or half-hanging off the hinges. Some even have blood in the front and back seats and on the inside and outside of the windows. Just looking at them makes Andrea want to throw up. The air around them is sad and terrified all at the same time, full of the fear and desperation that these people must have felt in their last hours as they realised that they weren't going to get out alive.

They cross gingerly, Andrea trying hard not to look at the things that people had deemed so essential to their survival that they stopped to pack them in the car as they were fleeing the city. Toys for the kids. An old copy of _Democracy in America_. Dozens of cell phones and pagers. Tampax and allergy meds. It's not that stuff that makes her stop and drop to her knees, though. It's the photograph albums that she can see inside the cars; there must be hundreds or even thousands of photographs here on this highway, collections of lives lived, of children born and raised, of college graduations, of weddings, christenings, birthdays. Suddenly it's too much and Andrea can feel her knees buckle.

"You fall over an' we'll leave you here." A strong Georgia twang grabs her shoulder roughly, jerking her back upright and snapping her out of her stupor.

The voice, however, does not exist in isolation. The voice has a body, one that smells of bourbon and pungent male sweat. It's hard and solid and unyielding. It also has eyes; a pair of brown ones, so brown they're almost black and narrowed in suspicion. The voice comes out of a mouth that's set in a firm, hard line and surrounded by week-old stubble. Behind him, Andrea can hear Dale's voice, slightly edgier than when he last spoke.

"Andrea, Amy, this is Merle and Daryl Dixon." He says nervously.

"I'm Merle." The other one says, a great ugly brute of a man who's wearing jeans and a vest that might have once begun life as white but is now so stained that it's hard to tell. He has a face like a potato, fleshy and ruddy and pock-marked in that way skin gets when it's had too much liquor and fried chicken and spent too much time out of doors. He's standing too close to Amy and staring at her with far more scrutiny than Andrea would like. She can feel her skin already beginning to crawl off of her bones.

The other one – the one who's still got ahold of her shoulder, tips his shin up slightly in greeting. "I'm Daryl." He says. Apparently he also has a talent for stating the obvious.

Andrea jerks her arm free. He's left a red mark on her skin from where he's held her too tight. "Andrea." She said, tipping her head at Amy. If they want to talk in head movements then she's happy to oblige. "That's my sister, Amy."

"That so." He says, still watching her suspiciously.

There's silence for a moment then, the five of them staring at each other warily on a highway of death, a mass grave that no-one's going to fill in. With a sinking realisation, Andrea realises that there might come a point where they need to search these cars and trucks for bounty: meds, tampons, pain-relievers, weapons. They're going to turn into grave-robbers, pillage the wares of the dead to survive.

Dale looks at the Dixon boys nervously, obviously trying to work out why they're here: have they been following them, or making a supply run? How much have they heard about his warning? Merle's face isn't giving anything away and neither is Daryl's and that makes Andrea feel even more afraid. Now more than ever she wants to run away and take her chances because there is _no fucking way_ that she's walking deeper into the forest with this pair, not with her kid sister and a guy who was probably about to draw Social Security before this hell started.

Daryl shatters the tension by grabbing her roughly, turning her around, running his hands over her body. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!" Andrea says, trying to stop him until she realises that he isn't feeling her up: he's checking her over like she's a criminal. Suddenly she fights the irrational urge to scream, "I'm a lawyer, asshole!"

"Dale, you check to see if they've been bit?" Daryl calls out, cursing when Dale doesn't answer. "It ain't personal." He murmurs in her ear. "We just aren't taking any chances."

When she glances over she sees Merle try to do the same to Amy before Dale waves him off and performs the necessary ritual. When Daryl's done and satisfied, he gives her a little push towards Dale and Amy and gestures that they start walking. Merle takes point followed by Dale, Amy and Andrea. Daryl brings up the rear.

They haven't gone two steps before Andrea stops and turns to him. Its only now she's noticed that he's brandishing a mean-looking hunting rifle and a knife. It doesn't deter her from what she's about to do.

"Touch me again and I'll cut off your balls and feed them to those things." She spits out.

Merle laughs. "Got yourself a firecracker there, Daryl!" He chortles.

Daryl gives her an amused expression before gesturing that they carry on crossing the highway.

TBC ...

A/N: I wasn't sure just how Dale saved Andrea and Amy but I figured that this would be as good a place as any to start.


	2. Build Trust

Build Trust.

Because I always wondered where Daryl got his crossbow from.

One of my reviewers (Orvokki) kindly pointed out that Daryl has blue rather than brown eyes. That was deliberate (as is Daryl's assumption here that Shane and Lori are together) - Andrea will notice but on first glance she's not paying all that much attention ;-)

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Oh, and I should extend a note of acknowledgements to MissGoalie, whose Gilmore Girls fic 'Footnotes and Annotations' was part of the inspiration for this fic, even if mine is far more modestly scaled than hers!

###

Andrea and Amy have been with the others for a week now and Daryl still isn't sure what to make of them. Sometimes it's hard to believe that they're related: aside from the blonde hair and blue eyes they aren't remotely alike, but some people have said that about him and Merle, too.

The younger sister – Amy - is sweet, even Daryl will admit that. She reminds him a little of Lacey Briggs, a girl he had a crush on when he was in high school. Sweet, sunny smile. Stupidly believed that everyone was good and redeemable. Is nice to everyone, even Merle when he's drunk more than he should. But she's just ... nice. That's all she is. Nothing more, nothing less.

Its Andrea who pisses him off.

She's smart, that's for sure. But book-smart, not street-smart. He overheard her telling Dale that she used to be a lawyer before the shit storm hit, talking about cases and papers and briefs and who-knows what else. But that isn't what pisses him off. Unlike his brother, he likes smart women, likes women who can string a fucking sentence together and aren't afraid to say what they think. What pisses him off is that she looks at him like he's stupid. Well ... not stupid, just the wrong kind of smart. She looks at him like he's planning something, like she doesn't trust him, which is as stupid as it is smart in the situation they're in right now. The trick is learning to trust the right people.

He doesn't blame her, not after the warning he knows that Dale gave her and her sister. Dale has a way of saying stuff to people without actually saying anything at all. Daryl almost wishes that he could do that until he realises that it would just be fucking exhausting: he says what he says and what he says is what he thinks, and that's just the way it is. And anyone who doesn't like it can suck it up, Andrea included.

They're scoping out a Wal-Mart several miles outside of the Atlanta city limits, part of a retail park that was designed to serve the new suburb in the south west that was never built because the world decided to end. They're running low on supplies and since Andrea and Amy's arrival their meagre resources have been stretched thin.

It shouldn't, but does surprise him that Andrea's happy to volunteer for the supermarket run with him and Glenn, a Korean kid who joined their group awhile back. He's cool in an incredibly nerdy way, and he's quiet, fast on his feet and knows Atlanta like the back of his hand, which is a nice balance to Daryl who has never really been to the city and judging from the shit that's coming out of it, it's probably just as well. When Andrea finds out that there's a run planned she's adamant that she's going. Dale disagrees and Lori – another survivor from Atlanta who joined their band with her son and her husband Shane – mutters about the rota that they established.

Daryl thinks its bullshit, Andrea just verbalises it: "Having a rota is bullshit when some people are better than others." She says bluntly. "If Daryl and Glenn don't have an issue with my going then I don't understand why it's so bad that I tag along and earn my keep." She said.

Daryl smirks a little at that. Maybe she isn't so bad, after all.

They take the back road to the mall complex, abandoning the truck about a half-mile from the overspill exit, behind a half-built house with a long, bloodied handprint smeared down the side. They hadn't seen any walkers or any other people moving around and decided to chance it. Glenn figured that it would be best if they went in the back way, away from prying eyes. There was also a straight and easy dash out if things got hairy. There isn't a good or a bad way to make a supply run like this, not really: it's a choice between bad and suicidal. But they need the food and meds and all other kinds of stuff. Mostly they need ammo for the weapons and in true American fashion, Wal-Mart has it all, a one-stop shop for all your zombie apocalypse needs.

They clear the gravel road between the truck and the store in minutes and Dale can feel the sweat running down the back of his shirt. He's been wearing this shirt for three days straight and he's forgotten what it's like to be clean. Andrea's beside him then, wiping the sweat from her brow. Unlike him she smells clean and fresh; he's forgotten just how good women can smell. Unfortunately her smell is soon obscured by that of rotting meat and vegetables, which hits them as soon as they enter the loading bay and store rooms. At least this place has some power; its slightly cooler than outside and there's a few emergency lights flickering overhead, giving them some light.

They move quickly through the store, each collecting what they need. There aren't any walkers so far, but the store's big and quiet and every footstep seems to echo and every aisle seems to have either blood or a body part in it. Andrea puts a hand to her mouth and Daryl can see the panic begin to rise in her eyes. That isn't a good idea.

"Panic later." He whispers hoarsely.

He knows by far the most about weapons so he heads straight there, Glenn takes meds and pharmacy while Andrea goes for food. There's still some ammo left but not much and he's able to fit what there is in the back pack he brought with him. It makes for a dismal sight, especially when he knows that he and Merle have enough ammo to start World War III in their rickety house deep in the woods, miles from anywhere. Its crossed his mind more than once that they should go and get it, but they can't spare the gas and there's no guarantee that they'll make it there and back in one piece. So he has to get creative.

Wal-Mart always reminds Daryl of Christmas. Every Christmas his mom used to go to the big superstore and come back smelling of sugar and spices, until one day she went out and never came back, leaving him alone with his drunkard dad and Merle, who wasn't much better. But there's some kind of grim festive spirit in him now as he peruses the aisles, searching for the best weapons to kill zombies. Knives? Absolutely. Baseball bat? Check. Cricket bat? Daryl doesn't know anything about cricket but the bat looks mean and heavy. Golf clubs – too flimsy-looking. He puts them back. Pool cue? Flimsier than golf clubs. Finally, as he reaches the end of the aisle, he spies a heavy, robust, fancy-looking crossbow, and smiles. Jackpot. Palming the crossbow and a handful of bolts, he adds the lot to the backpack.

He moves back through the store silently and swiftly, his ears straining to hear any sounds or movement. So far, nothing. In the dim background he's pretty sure that he can hear a low moan and shuffling, but it isn't close so he doesn't pay it much mind. They don't have much time, though. The smell of the food will probably hide their scent but if there are any walkers in the store and they get a whiff of them ... it could get ugly.

He spies Andrea in the canned goods aisle just as a walker does. Mercifully its alone and he's faster. Grabbing her arm he drags her backwards out of the aisle and around the corner, his hand sliding over her mouth, stifling her scream. "Its just me." He whispers hoarsely, his left hand holding her left steady as she tries to fight against him. "Don't. Move."

Her brain registers that he's a friendly then, and she goes unnervingly limp in his arms. He can feel her trembling from head to toe, feel her tears of fear as they slide down his cheeks and onto his hand. She's absolutely terrified, although he can't tell if it's because of the walker or because he's holding her against her will. He lets his hand drift off her mouth to take her other arm, still keeping her pressed against him. "Let's go." He whispers.

On the other side of the shelves, he can hear the walker moving down the aisle, searching for them, and he begins to move them up the other aisle in a slow, silent side-shuffle, Andrea still pressed against him. He curses himself for thinking it at this particular moment, but she feels as good as she smells.

"I'm scared." She whispers hoarsely.

"I know." He says quietly.

They reach the end of the aisle and clear it just as the walker rounds it from the other end. They're going to need to move fast if they want to get out unnoticed. Taking her hand, Daryl silently pulls them towards the pharmacy. It's beginning to freak him out a little that there aren't any walkers at all except for the one they just outwitted. In his experience they usually hunt in packs. Which means that this one is either a rogue, or they could be in serious trouble.

They find Glenn in the pharmacy, filling his own rucksack with meds and medical supplies. Unfortunately, he has company: two walkers gaining on him fast. Daryl takes down the first one with his knife, straight through the left eye. He drops easily and more importantly, silently.

Andrea takes down the second with a little more mess and a lot more noise.

The second walker's a man, a big, tall man with half an arm missing. It's a good job because it's that stump that reaches for Daryl as he bends over to retrieve his knife, and probably would have succeeded in scratching or tearing him rather than wiping blood on his rucksack. On instinct and without thinking, Andrea pulls the pistol from the back of her jeans and fires at him, proximity and blind luck meaning that she hits him right in the head. He drops easily, but her gunshot also wakes up the dozen walkers that are in the store.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Glenn shouts as they try to barricade themselves in the pharmacists' office using desks, chairs and computers – anything that comes to hand. On the other side of the door they can hear and feel the banging and moaning and they know it won't hold out for long.

"Here!" Daryl shouts as he climbs atop one of the large cabinets full of medical records. There's window that's maybe four feet wide and two feet high. They'll have to go one at a time but they can fit through. He eases it open, checking the drop and for walkers. It's clear and not too big a drop and he can see their truck from where they are.

"Whatever you're gonna do, do it fast!" Andrea says as the door begins to give. She and Glenn manage to position one of the other cabinets against the door, it won't hold for long but it might just hold for long enough.

He gestures to Andrea. "Come on!" He exclaims, reaching out his hand and gesturing that she take it.

She stares at him questioningly for a minute, obviously still weighing up whether or not to trust him. It's more than a little insulting since he's just saved her life. He makes the decision for her, taking her arm and pulling her up the cabinet and forcing her out of the window, pushing the three backpacks after her. The door begins to split open, gnarled, undead hands pushing their way through the flimsy wood.

The door isn't the only thing that's flimsy. A crack appears on the left-hand wall as walkers try to break their way through the plywood wall separating the office from the rest of the pharmacy.

"Glenn!" Daryl shouts, tugging the young Korean up and out of the window before he can protest, just as the door and the wall gives way. Just dodging hands and teeth, Daryl's out the window and on the ground outside, breathing hard.

"Daryl ..." Andrea says softly, her gaze moving to the left. When Daryl follows it, he feels his heart stop.

So that's where the herd of walkers had been hiding: outside Wal-Mart. Maybe they'd been waiting for Black Friday. "Run." He says, grabbing the bags and ushering the other two in front of him as the zombies give chase. They're running and they've got a head start, but it doesn't feel like much: these things are fast. It's not until they're in the truck and speeding away down unfamiliar back roads that he finally allows himself to breathe.

Later that night, while the others are cooking dinner, he's spending some quality alone time getting to know his crossbow and an unfamiliar shadow looms over him, a feast of fried spam and potatoes on a paper plate shoved under his nose. When he looks up, she's standing there with an almost neutral expression on her face, like she's trying to square in her mind what she's been told about him with what she's seen today. Its strange, watching the emotions play out on her face. He's half tempted to open his mouth to prompt her but before he can Merle's next to them, taking the plate from Daryl and beginning to eat.

"Here." Andrea says as she gives Merle a look of borderline disgust and handing Daryl her food. "Take mine."

Surprised by the gesture, he nods once in thanks and takes it. The pair stare at each other for some seconds, Daryl trying to work her out as much as she's trying to work him out. Eventually, she imitates his solo nod and retreats back towards the others.

"Guess you can keep your balls after all, Dixon." Andrea tosses over her shoulder as she ambles away.

He smirks. Something tells him that this is the closest he's going to get to a thank you from Andrea for a while. "You're welcome!" He calls after her.

TBC


	3. Value and Currency

Value and Currency.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Also, onotellingoyou kindly pointed out that apparently Wal-Mart doesn't sell particularly robust crossbows – thanks for that. I've only been in there a handful of times but they looked pretty scary to me. But then, I know nothing about outdoorsy stuff so there you go!

###

"So what do you think of 'em?" Merle asks as the two brothers return from a morning's hunt, carrying a deer and their weapons between them.

"Think of who?" Daryl asks, wiping the sweat from his brow. It's not even noon and already its oppressively hot, the forests offering little respite from the heat and humidity. They're both soaked through with sweat, Merle's carrying the distinct, pungent aroma of booze.

Merle gives him a 'be serious' look. "You know exactly who I mean." He says persistently. "The blondes, dumbass."

Daryl fights the urge to roll his eyes. After 'booze' and 'drugs,' trust Merle to think about pussy. "Haven't got an opinion of 'em, I guess." He says honestly. He can truthfully say that while he knows who they are, neither of them interest him enough to deserve an opinion, not really. Plus ... when you could be zombie fodder any day it isn't a good idea to make too many friends, especially not with two blonde, middle-class city chicks that probably won't be around much longer.

Merle laughed and shook his head. "Bullshit!" He exclaimed, reaching into his back pocket and coming away with a hip flask. "You _always_ got an opinion and you're never shy about sharin' it. Especially when it comes to blondes."

"No, I don't!" Daryl snaps, shooting a dark glance at his brother. He loves his brother for many conflicting, contradictory reasons that even he can't make sense of, but he's hot and hungry and his temper's frayed shorter than usual, so he's not in the mood to argue. And Merle can turn arguing into a contact sport. He's got the scars to prove it. "Not about this. But clearly you do."

Merle shakes his head again as he takes a long swig. "The older one's a piece of work." He says, pressing his lips together to savour the taste of booze that clings to them. "Nice tits though. Younger one's sweet as honey. Wonder what their story is."

"Same as everyone else's I expect." Daryl says nonchalantly, gesturing that Merle pass him the flask. The bourbon's warm and sickly as it hits his throat, kinda like maple syrup.

"You went on a grocery run with her." Merle says, his tone almost accusatory, as though Daryl's meant to know or think something about her because they went to Wal-Mart together.

"That ain't a crime, Merle. And Glenn was there too." Daryl retorts.

"Glenn." Merle snorts in derision. "Damn kid don't know the difference between pizzas and pliers-" There's movement ahead then and the two men fall instantly silent, their eyes roaming the tree lines and the bushes beyond. They aren't too far from the camp site and the two men listen to try to discern any noises coming from that way: cries, screams, the sounds of flesh being ripped apart ... nothing.

"Musta been a deer." Merle says after several long moments of silence. Daryl's not sure if he's trying to reassure himself or him.

"Yeah." Daryl says as he checks his crossbow again, making sure there's a bolt ready. "Musta been."

"We should think about moving on soon." Merle says as they begin walking again, their movements faster this time, their voices quieter.

"Yeah." Daryl agrees. Frankly he's astounded that they've stayed as long as they have with this group; its not like any of the others have skills that he and Merle don't have between them. That Glenn kid knows a bunch about Atlanta but why would they want to go to Atlanta anyway? Last time he checked, people were trying to get out of Atlanta rather than get in. If they had a doctor or nurse at the camp, that might be one incentive to stay, but they don't and he's never much liked excessive company anyway.

"You know they'll slow us down." Merle says insistently, and Daryl knows that he's right. "Look at this right now: we're out shooting food for the others. They can't fend for themselves, they're dead weight. We should take the truck and our gear and get out."

###

They're set upon by walkers during the night. Not many, but enough to rattle everyone. No-one's either bit or killed but for the first few seconds absolute chaos reigns as the campsite turns into a swirling mass of bullets and blood and destroyed tents, backlit by a fire and scored by Amy and Sophia's screaming. Everyone's terrified. Except for the Dixon boys who, Andrea notes, seem to take a grim kind of pleasure in killing what used to be their fellow citizens. Not just that, but they also seem to take pleasure in their own efficiency as killers: it's not just the act of shooting a zombie in the head or cutting it off with a mean-looking hunting knife, but it's the economy and the skill that comes along with it. It makes her feel both nauseous and grateful all at the same time, grateful that someone in their midst has that ruthless instinct and wields it so openly and unconsciously.

She's so busy musing that she hasn't noticed a walker stumbling towards her until its almost on top of her, arms reaching for her, black, viscous blood spilling out of its mouth as it reaches for her. She fumbles for the pistol but drops it and backs away, searching for a weapon and cursing her own stupidity. It's almost on her when it stops and judders, unnatural even for a zombie. Its arms flail and then more and more blood starts to pour out of its mouth before it drops to the floor. Daryl Dixon's standing behind it, his long hunting knife dark and thick with infected blood. Andrea opens her mouth to thank him but before she can he caves in the zombie's head with his boot.

"Gotta kill the brain." He says softly before turning around and walking away, dragging the corpse with him.

They build a fire for the bodies. It smells god-awful but it's probably the only way to be sure the walkers aren't going to rise again. Amy sits huddled just apart from the fire, whimpering and crying and wailing about wanting to go home and go back to everything being 'normal'. Andrea tries to comfort her as best she can but it's a futile effort: home and normal are both gone, and neither one is coming back any time soon, if at all.

"For Christ's sakes will you shut her up!" Merle eventually snaps. He and Daryl are sitting on the other side of the fire, apart from the rest, sharing a packet of beef jerky and checking their weapons. "She's getting on my goddamned nerves!"

"Hey, fuck you!" Andrea snaps back. "She's fucking terrified!"

"She should be!" Merle retorts. "Next band of walkers come through here and we might not be so lucky!"

Shane interjects then. "I think we're all scared." He says diplomatically, obviously trying to diffuse the situation. "We've all had a long night. Andrea, why don't you get Amy settled and get some rest. I'll take first watch – Daryl, would you mind doing first watch, too?"

Daryl shrugs easily, nonchalantly, his gaze unmoving as he cleans his crossbow. "Whatever." He says.

Amy falls asleep with relative ease but Andrea doesn't. Instead, she sits at the window to the RV, her eyes on the Dixon brothers who are sat around the remnants of the fire like a nightmarish vision of a Boy Scout camping trip. Its then that she comes to two terrifying conclusions.

The first is that while Merle might well be the most overtly meaner of the pair, it's Daryl Dixon who's by far the more dangerous of the two Dixon brothers. He's got a fearful temper to be sure, it's erupted more than once since they've been here and its one of the most terrifying things Andrea's ever seen, but sometimes when she looks at his eyes she sees such rage and coldness that it chills her to the bone. She'd always thought of rage as a red emotion, a hot emotion, one that ran close to the surface, but now she isn't so sure. Because when she looks into Daryl's blue eyes (on closer inspection she sees that they are blue and not brown like she originally thought) she sees nothing but constant wariness, constant anger, constant alertness. Merle's mean-spirited and likes to stir the shit and drinks too much and looks at her and her sister more than she'd like, and Andrea has no doubt that he'd put a bullet in her to save his own hide but ... there's an element of control about Daryl that's often absent in Merle: control and calculation. Her mind flits back to the way he dispatched the walker who set upon her: with cool, easy precision, no more effort expended than was necessary. It was almost elegantly precise. She doubted it even brought out a sweat or a raised heartbeat or second thought, and that scares her far more than Merle ever will.

The second is that no-one else at the camp (except for maybe Dale) seems to realise just how much they have come to depend on the Dixon boys. And that dependency is as one-sided as it is blind or just plain deluded: people don't like to admit it because they see the Dixon brothers as white trash, hillbillies, rednecks – whatever. And it's probably not far from the mark but even if it is or it isn't, it doesn't matter. It doesn't alter the fact that if it wasn't for Daryl and Merle they wouldn't eat as well as they did. They wouldn't know where would be a good place to set up camp, probably would have been food for those walkers, shit – Andrea wouldn't even know how to build a fire without a lighter and some kindling. In this new knowledge and survival economy where basic hunting skills or a bottle of water or tank of gas mean more than any conceivable dollar value, her own value is negligible while theirs has become priceless.

More frightening again is that Andrea has a horrible, sinking feeling that no-one but her has noticed it, and the Dixon boys aren't going to hang around long enough for the rest of the group to realise it, either. They might hang around for another few days at most, but she can see it in their restless energy and the way they move that they're itching to go, itching to get away from their living delicatessen of a campsite. She doesn't blame them, in a way. While there's safety in numbers, they aren't a good bet in terms of chances of survival. But they've all made it this far, at least. Maybe that will count for something. Or maybe one of them will have a fit of conscience or desire for company amongst men, women and children who don't possess the same skill set that they do.

She spends the night dozing fitfully, her dreams peppered by walkers and blood and screams of terror. When she wakes up it's barely dawn and the sweat is running down her back and soaking her shirt. The RV stinks of sweat and unwashed people and the relative freshness of the muggy Georgia air is a welcome respite.

She's splashing her face and neck with water from a plastic bucket when she's aware of someone behind her. Its Daryl Dixon, crossbow slung across his chest. She barely sees him without it now. She's got no idea how long he's been standing there, watching her silently. Its unnerving how quiet he can be, sometimes.

"You about finished with that?" He says, gesturing to the bucket, and she nods and steps back, allowing him access to the water. He looks alert enough, although he was still awake when she finally dozed off. He's covered in sweat and grime, it's plastered his dirty blonde hair to his head. He's wearing the same dirty vest he wore yesterday, and the day before, and she can smell him from here: he smells like animals and male sweat. A ripple of fear shudders down her spine. She thinks back to their run to Wal-Mart when he'd saved her life, tries to square it with the man standing in front of her. She isn't sure just how successful she is.

"You're up early." She says as he imitates her basic washing ritual.

"Not slept much. Figured I'd get up, see if I couldn't catch some rabbit or squirrel."

He's gone before she can say anything more, swallowed up by the forest. When he returns several hours later, she isn't sure whether or not she's relieved.

TBC ...


	4. Missing

Missing.

This one isn't really Andrea-Daryl, but I've been re-watching 1.03 and it just popped into my head.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

###

"You son of a bitch!" Amy screams. When Shane calmly announces that they can't go to Atlanta to get her sister, Amy's beyond pissed. How can he say that? How can he abandon so many of their straggly band to an unknown fate?

She can tell from the looks on the others' faces that they disagree, Lori in particular. But they know he's right: in Atlanta, if they're trapped then they're likely dead or worse and going after them isn't going to help any. Rationally, she knows this. But Andrea's her big sister, her only sister and without her she knows she isn't going to be able to survive the days ahead. Right now she's prepared to do whatever it takes to go back to the city and get her sister.

_Anything. _

She doesn't know where to find him, not really. She thinks he might be out hunting, but she finds him just outside the tent that he's erected next to his brother's. He's working on the engine of his old pickup, humming a tune that exists only in his head. His hands still on the motor when he hears her approach.

"What d'ya want, little girl?" He drawls, barely glancing up from under the hood, and Amy fears a ripple of something that feels a lot like fear shiver and crawl down her spine.

She's never spoken to Daryl Dixon before, not really, but she's acutely aware of his presence at the camp. And Merle's. The pair tend to stick together, separate from the rest and right now that's what she's counting on. She's terrified of them both, especially Merle. He looks at her sometimes and calls her sister 'sugar tits' and he makes her want to spend extra long in the shower once he's through looking. But Daryl's pretty scary too, in a different way. He doesn't look at them, like Merle. He doesn't look at any of them. Its like he sees right through them, or doesn't see them at all. But she knows that he does because he always brings back enough food for them all and the other day he helped Dale and Jim with the motor on the RV. But ... he's tense. Real tense, like he's angry all the time. And he shouts; he shouts _so loud_ that it makes the windows on the RV rattle.

But he isn't shouting now. Right now he's watching her closely and walking towards her and it takes everything she has in her not to take a step back. She's comes from a quiet, middle-class suburb, where her mom baked cookies and her dad took her fishing and everything was very sedate and comfortable and insulated. She'd never even seen men like Daryl until she and her sister fell in with this group of people. He's rough and loud and dangerous and she's pretty sure that he doesn't throw the fish back into the lake when he's caught them like her dad taught her. Maybe he's like Andrea, in that way.

"Hey – Amy? You got somethin' you wanna say, or you just come over here to stare?" He snaps and Amy jumps when he uses her name. She didn't even think that he knew her name.

"They ... they're trapped." She blurts out.

Clearly he needs more information than this. "You wanna tell me what you're babblin' about?" He snaps, a touch gentler this time when he sees the look on her face. He can probably smell her fear and she isn't sure if he's adjusted his tone because he likes taunting her or if he's actually aware of the fact that he's scaring the shit out of her.

"The others ... who went to Atlanta ... they're trapped." She manages to force out, cursing herself when tears begin to spill onto her lashes at the thought of Andrea being left alone in the city. "Shane doesn't want to go back to get them." When he gives her an even look she ploughs on. "Your brother and my sister are with them. I just ... I thought you'd want to know about it, maybe do something about it."

His eyes soften almost imperceptively then. "That right?" He says.

Amy nods once and wipes her tears with the back of her hand. "I just ... I can't leave my sister behind." She says miserably. She's not adverse to begging him, if that's what it takes. He's the only one who's able to get in, get them and get out. She needs his help. "It isn't right, it isn't fair, they volunteered to go get food and supplies and-"

"You think they need help gettin' out of the city?" Daryl finishes, clearly sensing her train of thought.

"Something like that." Amy says. "Or ... talk to Shane. Try to get him to change his mind, get some of the others to go with you-"

Daryl laughs then, actually laughs in her face. "Talk to Shane – you heard yourself? In case you ain't noticed, Shane and I don't exactly talk very well!"

"Well you need to do something!" Amy shrieks, and Daryl's eyes widen at what he probably sees as a crazy, stupid little city girl separated from her sister. "Because no-one will listen to me!"

"Woah – calm down!" Daryl exclaims. "Jeez – listen to yourself!"

"Don't you care that they're going to leave your brother out there!" Amy continues.

"Of course I care!" Daryl shouts back. "But you comin' over here and shoutin' at me ain't gonna fix things." He sighs and wipes his mouth with a sweaty, oil-stained hand before wiping sweat and grime from his hand on the leg of his pants. "Girl, ain't you met my brother?" He says then. "You really think he's gonna stay trapped for long?"

"Yeah, well you've met my sister!" Amy retorts. "And I can't leave her behind!"

Daryl opens his mouth to say something more but he's cut off by Shane who ambles into his line of vision, behind Amy. "Officer Asswipe's lookin' for you." He says, tipping his chin up in greeting. "What's all this I hear 'bout you abandonin' folks in Atlanta?" He growls. Amy takes a step back. He looks dangerous and pissed.

Shane's glance flickers from Daryl to Amy and back again before Daryl interrupts his scrutiny. "Yeah." He said. "She told me. Said I ought to know, which is a hell of a lot more than the rest of you thought about."

Shane glares at Daryl and Amy can see the muscles in his jaw twitching. She isn't quite sure why the two men dislike each other as much as they do but even she, a naive city girl can sense that a fight between the two men is brewing. She just doesn't want to be around to watch because she isn't sure who will come off worse.

Shane looks away first, glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on the others. "Just heard from 'em." He says eventually. "They're on their way back"

Almost immediately the tension dissipates. Amy audibly exhales. Daryl moves to the truck and grabs his crossbow. "Told ya they'd be okay." He says to Amy as he moves past her, but there's little malice there.

"Hey, where you goin'?" Shane calls to the younger Dixon's retreating back.

"Huntin'." Daryl calls out, not bothering to turn around. "Merle'll want some venison after being stuck in that shithole all morning!" He's gone, swallowed up by the forest before either Shane or Amy can say any more.

Amy turns around to Shane's questioning gaze. "Is my sister okay?" She asks softly.

Shane exhales deeply and nods once. "But there's a problem with Merle." He finishes.

Amy sighs. Maybe that confrontation's coming sooner than she thought.

TBC ...

A/N: Okay, so I know that Daryl's meant to be off hunting deer for awhile before they get back from Atlanta, so I tweaked it just slightly.


	5. Hunting

Hunting.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my shoes.

###

Andrea sighs as she listens to the conversation between Shane, Rick and Daryl unfold, her eyes rooted on the three men as Shane says the words they've all been dreading and Rick follows on with a succinct, no-nonsense explanation, using the tone he's no doubt used hundreds of times while speaking to families or foes who happen to cross his path and require calming down. He recounts succinctly what happened with practices ease: the basic facts, no more, no less. It's quite a skill, really, boiling down their Atlanta trip to three or four lines of terse, accurate prose. If the situation wasn't so awful, she'd be impressed.

Daryl clearly doesn't think so and the explosion that they all feared and predicted is no less spectacular than what they had envisioned. "You handcuffed my brother to a roof, and left him there?" He explodes. The rest of the camp seems to collectively wince at his words and the anger behind them.

Andrea's seen Daryl Dixon angry, seen it plenty of times in the short time she's been at the camp. Or at least, she thinks she has. But as she watches Shane and Rick try to explain what happened to his brother, she realises that she was just watching the warm-up. Now, Daryl is furious: utterly, completely furious. He's pissed, upset, shocked, and she doesn't blame him. Merle was being an out-of-control asshole but he's still Daryl's brother and if someone had done that to Amy, Daryl's mood would be sunny compared to the hell she'd unleash.

The shouting match quickly becomes physical, Shane restraining Daryl with a mean-looking choke-hold as he and Rick subdue him, kicking Daryl's mean-looking knife out of the way. He struggles and grunts and rails against them but soon goes slack, clearly sensing that this is a fight he's not going to win without incurring serious damage.

"It's my fault." _Uh-oh_. Now T-Dog's decided to unburden himself.

While the conversation moves it's obvious that Daryl's having a hard time keeping control on the grief inside of him. He tells them all to go to hell as he wipes at his eyes, although Andrea can't tell if he's wiping away tears or sweat. He'd swear it was the latter but she's pretty sure it's the former.

They make plans to leave soon after that: Daryl, Rick, Glenn and T-Dog, the four of them weighed down by a variety of conflicting and overlapping obligations. Daryl looks less than pleased at their insistence that they come along, but no less pleased than the other three, or Lori, Carl and Shane. Oh.

_Oh. _

Well this is going to be awkward.

Shane and Rick are having a heated discussion about the relative merits of Rick going with Daryl. Rick's trying to do the right thing, which is admirable, but didn't they pass 'admirable' awhile back? And Shane has a point: Rick's taking half their manpower (it's not lost on her that none of the women have guns and spend all their time washing and looking after the children; funny how the end of the world has blown the first, second and third waves of feminism right out of the water without so much as a backwards glance on either side) and leaving them virtually defenceless. Eventually, they're just talking in circles, saying little new and Andrea sees more and more that not only is Rick Grimes a man of his word, but when he speaks, his word is final. Like Shane. And Daryl. And Merle.

Something tells Andrea that the blow-up between the three men is just the beginning. Can't they settle things without bringing testosterone and ego into the mix? But then she remembers that the word has apparently started spinning backwards on its axis, so she shouldn't really be all that surprised.

Fed up with Shane and Rick's macho posturing (which is as much about Lori as it is about going back to Atlanta, Rick just hasn't been here long enough to realise it), Andrea heads for the RV to pillage Dale's fishing supplies. She's sick and tired of washing clothes and her dad once told her that she was mighty handy with a fishing line. She's searching for hooks and line when the RV door slams shut and the smell of male sweat fills the cab. When she turns around, Daryl Dixon's standing in front of her, filling the RV with his angry, tightly-wound presence.

"What do you know about Rick Grimes?" He asks without preamble. There's still a sneer in his voice when he mentions Rick's name but genuine curiosity there, too.

Andrea's frankly floored that he's in here asking her opinion and it must show on her face. "You're asking _me_?" She says flatly. Maybe now that the initial rage has passed, he's actually thinking things through

"You got eyes and a brain, don't you?" He says with equal frankness. "Plus you're the only one who was there who ain't offered an opinion. Ain't like you." He's so wired he looks ready to explode, his gaze darting to the window where he can see Rick talking to Lori. They both look pissed.

"I didn't think you were taking opinions on the subject." Andrea bites back, searching through Dale's box of fishing gear until Daryl slams it closed, almost trapping her hands within. "What the hell is your problem?" She snaps.

"What do you know about Rick Grimes?" He says again, so calmly that she's beginning to wonder if someone's put a different Daryl Dixon in his place. "He really a lawman? 'Cos I ain't met a lawman I trusted."

"I didn't think you trusted anyone but Merle."

"I don't."

"So why are you here?"

Daryl glares at her. "What happened on that roof?" He says. "Why the fuck did they handcuff my brother to a roof!"

"Because he was being an asshole!" Andrea shouts back. She's had just about enough of Daryl Dixon's temper. He scares her but she'll be damned if he's going to barge in here and intimidate her. "Jesus, Daryl – haven't you met your brother?"

"Watch your mouth." He repeats.

"Or what? You'll pull your knife on me like you did with Rick and Shane?" She says. "Your brother was out of control, Daryl." She says. "He goaded T-Dog, they got into a fight, they were making so much noise they threatened to bring every walker in a ten block radius down on our heads. Rick intervened."

"Intervened!" Daryl shout. "That what you want to call it? That some lawyer talk for leavin' my brother to rot!"

"You asked me for my opinion and I'm giving it to you!" Andrea shouts. "You don't like it then you know where the door is!"

Daryl audibly grinds his teeth. "Just how tough was this door and chain?" He says eventually.

"T-Dog says it was tough enough."

"And you believe him?"

"No reason not to. Why are you here?" She says eventually. "Why are you asking me my opinion?"

He watches her carefully. "I never go out huntin' without knowin' who I'm huntin' with." He says eventually.

Andrea gives him an incredulous, quizzical expression. "What – I'm supposed to guess what that means?" She says.

"You ever go into court without knowin' all your facts?" When she doesn't say anything he glares at her one last time before heading for the door. "He'd better be okay." He says. "That's my only word on the matter."

"Asshole." She mutters under her breath.

TBC ...


	6. Grief

Grief.

I feel like I should rush these out as soon as I can, if the preview for the next episode's anything to go by: Andrea and Shane making eyes at each other, really? Unless it's just a really clever trailer. Oh well. I seem to have a habit of rooting for couples that don't seem to happen. Maybe I'm cursed, LOL. Although hopefully not in this case!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

###

They're leaving the camp as soon as soon as they can pack stuff in bags and load it into their trucks; Daryl's never seen such frantic activity from the group before. It's impressive how fast everyone can move now that they have an impetus. Not that anyone wants to stay any more. It isn't safe and no-one feels right sleeping on ground that's wet with the blood of their friends.

While they pack, he makes sure no more walkers come by to finish what their friends started. He's already packed, not that he had much worth bringing with him save for Merle's bike, which he's already loaded onto the flat bed of his truck. He's got some ammo and a mean-looking shotgun, some clothes and other assorted camping stuff, but he travels light and he doesn't have any kids to pack for, so he's done long before the others.

He's coming back from making a last-minute sweep when he stumbles across her. She's sat at the side of her sister's grave, a clutch of wild flowers in her hand, so still and quiet he wonders if she's fallen asleep, or if she's given up hope. He really hopes it's not the latter; he can't stand weak women and the thought of listening to her bawl and bitch and wail is enough to make his ears hurt.

He takes back his last comment as he inches closer and sees that she's still wearing the same bloodstained clothes from the previous night, clothes that are stained with her sister's blood. Putting that bullet in her sister's head took balls, whether she was a walker or not. Sometimes he forgets that they were both cutesy city girls before they found themselves at the business end of the end of the world. They come from completely different worlds, speak completely different languages. Not that Daryl's saying he awaits the day when he might have to kill his own brother, but he's reconciled to the possibility. He loves his brother (even if he doesn't much like him most of the time) but he wouldn't hesitate to take a pickaxe to Merle's head if he turned into one of those walkers. Not only is it what Merle would want but Daryl's damned if he's going to let sentimentality or plain sloppiness get in the way of survival, because he plans to survive the end of the world at all costs. But as is rapidly becoming obvious, no-one else in the camp shares his attitude.

More than once he's thought about leaving; taking off and searching for Merle himself, or just trying to find somewhere where he can just live out the rest of this hell in peace, without walkers or Rick 'We don't kill the living/I want to have a calm discussion about how I handcuffed your brother to a roof' Grimes' endless yammering in his ear, or Dale with his endless stories around the campfire. But, he figures, where would be the fun in that?

Now who's the sentimentalist?

He's tempted to just slip away, back to the camp, leaving her alone in her grief but he doesn't. He's curious, in a way. Would Daryl mourn Merle the way Andrea's mourning Amy? He isn't sure, not just because he knows it isn't what Merle would want (Merle was never one for the rituals of life or death: a bottle of bourbon in a run-down bar will be plenty. And he'd see any admission of grief as a weakness to be exploited), but he isn't sure he has it in him. His relationship with his brother is like a bear with a sore head: best left alone until it passes. It is what it is and its nothing like what Amy and Andrea had. But losing kin is losing kin and they were obviously tight; his mind flits back to Amy's desperate plea to him to go search for her sister. He can scarce believe that it was only a day ago. Yet another person he'll never speak to again. There have been so many now that he really should be long reconciled to it.

She's touching the soil on the fresh grave, tears streaming down her face. There's blood all over her shirt and pants and he really, _really_ wants to leave. He feels like an intruder, even more so than usual. He knows that he's different to the others in the camp, something that they've all picked up on and accepted, one way or another. The others come from a world of air-conditioning, new cars and Starbucks Lattes. They probably believe that chickens begin life in vacuum-packed cartons rather than a terrified bird and a brandished hatchet red with blood. They don't want much to do with him and Merle, are probably surprised they've stayed with the group as long as they have. They have rituals of life and death and grief that he just doesn't much care about, not now.

But this ritual in front of him, this tender cultivation of a dead sibling's grave, he can't understand. In a way, he doesn't want to understand. But she glances up and sees him and he feels frozen to the spot, unable to move.

She stares at him with an almost accusatory gaze. "What do you want?" She says, with more anger than he expected. "Come to put the hatchet in what's left of her brain in case I didn't finish the job?"

Daryl keeps quiet but can feel his eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. He meant what he said earlier that day and he stands by it now: they shouldn't have buried the bodies. If she wasn't so tied up with her sister, she'd probably see that he's right.

Andrea isn't done. "I know you think we're stupid." She says, her whole body shaking with rage. She stands up and she's in Daryl's face within seconds, so fast he almost wants to take a step back. "I know you think that we're weak and pathetic for clinging on to what happened before, but I don't care. So take your pickaxe and your zero tolerance for walkers and leave me and my sister alone. Let me say goodbye to her one last time because after today I'm only going to see her in my nightmares where she's cold and bloody and reaching for me, and there's nothing I can do."

Aside from their conversation just the other day about Rick Grimes, it's the most she's ever said to him in the short weeks she's been at the camp. Her words are angry, angry with pain and grief and the 'why Amy' question: why did she get bit and not her? Why is she in a hole in the ground with a bullet hole in the head? He doesn't have any answers for her because there aren't any and he's not about to start getting into a deep discussion about fate and chance and happenstance. Sometimes things happen for a reason and sometimes things happen because they're fucked up and in his opinion it's usually the latter that wins out.

But he doesn't think that Andrea wants to hear that. There goes that sentimental thing again.

"She wanted to go back for you." He blurts out. _Why, why did you have to open your big mouth?_

She gives him an astounded look. "What?" She says incredulously.

_Great_. Now he's going to have to carry on. "When she thought that y'all were trapped inside the city." He says. "She came to me, wanted me to do something about it."

She looks completely surprised. "And what did you say?" She says warily.

He snorts. "I told her not to be so crazy!" He exclaims. "It was the last conversation I had with her." He adds.

Andrea looks at him suspiciously. "Why are you telling me all of this?" She says.

He shrugs. "I don't know." He says softly, and he genuinely doesn't. Is he trying to make her feel better, trying to engage in the ritual of grief that he can't and isn't allowed to feel for his own missing brother? Trying to make up for the fact that the last time they spoke he was a jerk to her and now her sister's dead? Trying to let her know that Amy loved her and was worried about her?

When she doesn't say anything else, he shrugs. "We're packin' up and leaving soon." He says, moving to walk down the hill, away from their makeshift cemetery. She needs a few more minutes' alone with her sister before saying goodbye for the final time.

TBC...


	7. I Have Never

I Have Never

Just how much booze do they all drink in the CDC? Just a short one, this. I think what I'm trying to get at with this chapter is that it's not a progression into romance. It's more an acceptance of the fact that sometimes, you just need comfort from someone. And as we've seen, Daryl's capable of doing that, in his own way. But there's definitely a slow change of feelings, so there's some romance, I guess! So I hope you like it! And yes, I'm aware that the end of this is a bit like All Good Music. I didn't realise it when I wrote it but ... I guess I'm only plagiarising myself. And y'know what? I don't much care!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Also, the song that Andrea has a little dance party to is Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris, All the Road Running. I don't own that, either. I should also note that I am in no way condoning excessive alcohol consumption, or using it as a band-aid for problems. Its just ... these guys have been through hell. They need to blow off steam.

###

Andrea sits under the hot water of the CDC shower for a long time, letting the scalding water pour down onto her back. This is the first time since Amy's death where she's been alone, truly alone. There's no Lori and Rick in the next tent, or Dale bumbling around in the RV, or rules about not going anywhere alone. And for the first time since Amy's death, she can allow herself to grieve. So she sits in the shower, using Jenner's hot water, and sobs so loud and so hard she thinks that she's literally going to come apart at the seams. She cries until there is nothing left inside of her, nothing left to give, no more to expend. And as she stands in front of the bathroom mirror, frantically splashing cold water on her face to rid herself of the puffy cheeks and eyes that she has, she feels cleansed, in a way. There's a weird serenity there, like being in the centre of a hurricane and watching the shit swirl around you. Once she's satisfied that she doesn't look like she's been bawling her eyes out in the shower, she finds some clean clothes to wear and heads back to the mess hall to meet the others.

###

Daryl watches Andrea carefully as she approaches the table with a plate full of food. Like him, her hair is damp from the shower, the clothes she wears stick to her skin just enough to know that she isn't fully dry beneath them.

There was an air grate separating their shower stalls. Not big enough to see, just to hear.

He knows what it's like to feel like you have to hide your tears. He did it himself enough growing up until he realised that crying about something never solved anything. But he remembers the blessed relief that follows a cathartic purge, even if it has been double digit years since he cried. Even now, when she slides into the seat close to him, he can see the red rims around her eyes, the puffiness in her face. He isn't the most observant person, but if he can see it then so can the others.

When Shane manages in ten words or less to destroy what little cheer they feel, Dale tries to talk to Andrea, his mouth half open until Daryl shakes his head almost imperceptively. The slump of her shoulders, the downwards gaze – she doesn't want to hear what anyone has got to say. Not right now, anyway.

When he produces a bottle of bourbon he sees her eyes light up. Maybe she'll be willing to listen, after all.

###

Pretty soon it's just the four of them: her, Daryl, Glenn and T-Dog.

The others have gone to bed, passed out, whatever. Andrea doesn't much care. Glenn produces a pack of cards and they play blackjack and poker for a while, just long enough for their tongues to become loosened enough by booze and emotional and physical fatigue that it's suddenly a good idea to start revealing secrets that they'll regret sharing in the morning.

When Daryl then finds a bottle of vodka they start playing 'I Have Never.' Or 'Never Have I Ever,' Whatever you want to call it. The name's irrelevant, the rule's the same: someone says something (I have never been bit by a dog, for example), and if you've done it, you take a drink. It's an ideal game for their twin objectives: to keep talking and to keep drinking.

"Come on!" Andrea says as she bangs her hands on the metal table for emphasis. Daryl pours four shots and smirks at her. Devoid of grime and sweat and his horrendous older brother, he's actually a decent guy, kinda fun to be around if you can get past the temper. This evening he's surprised her with his company. And his smile, such as it is, is enough to make her look twice. Three times.

But that could be the booze.

"I don't think I need to talk about liquor and my sex life to bond, guys." Glenn says as he eyes the shot glass with a certain sense of trepidation. When did they move onto shots? Had they run out of soda? "Isn't almost being eaten enough of a bonding experience?"

"You need to cement it, Glenn!" Daryl cackles as he knocks back the shot in one clear swoop, slamming the glass onto the table. From her position opposite Daryl, Andrea refills his glass and he tips his head in thanks, his gaze lingering on her for just a split second longer than it has in the past.

Obviously the liquor's affecting them all.

"We'll start off with something simple." She says, thinking for a second. "I have never been chased by a zombie." She says.

They all silently drink to that, clinking their glasses together like its a wake or something. Maybe it is. Maybe this is little sad celebration is all their dead friends and family and shattered lives are going to get: a bottle of cheap bourbon that burns the eyes and stings the tongue as it goes down. Maybe they should just abandon the glasses and chug straight from the bottle, if these are the kinds of questions they're going to get.

Andrea turns to T-Dog. "Your turn." She says.

T-Dog thinks for a minute. "I suck at this game." He says.

"Just say whatever pops into your head." Glenn encourages.

"Fine ... I have never been stuck in traffic."

"You're right: you _do_ suck at this game." Daryl says as they all take a drink.

There's no rule that says you can't talk about non-personal, almost asinine stuff, but as everyone knows ... that isn't the point of the game. The point of the game, everyone knows, is to talk about your personal lives: the loves lost and neglected, the fingers burned from a flame too bright or too dull, the running with scissors. Glenn's the first person to bring up sex, and Andrea gives the kid credit: it's on his first go, no less.

"I have never wanted to have sex right after escaping the geeks." He says, giving them all a sly glance. When no-one drinks he laughs. "C'mon, guys!" He exclaims. "It's a natural survival emotion to want to run away and procreate!"

They all smirk at each other. And then they all drink. Daryl roars with laughter. He's been laughing a lot this evening. Maybe it's the booze. Maybe he's happier when drunk. But his laughter doesn't sound happy. It's like a bray, a bark. Its angry laughter. She wonders what he'd be like if Merle was here. Would he be happier, would he laugh more, or would he be angrier?

Then it's Daryl's turn. Predictably, he's blunt and to the point. "I have never thought that Lori and Shane were together." He says.

T-Dog whistles low as he drinks. "Damn, man." He says.

The other three follow suit. The only person Lori and Shane are good at keeping secrets from is Rick. And maybe Carl, but no-one, not even Daryl, is blunt enough to ask the kid _that _question. They might all be burned out and angry but none of them are cruel enough to shatter a kid who's only just got his dad back.

The game goes on, and on, as they dig into their memories and reveal the burned fingers, the screams in the night, the running with scissors. What surprises Andrea is that no-one ever flinches from answering questions and no-one leaves, either. It's almost like playing emotional Russian Roulette.

The bottle's half empty and Andrea can see eight shot glasses on the table instead of four when things turn morose, if that's even possible.

"I have never been in love." Glenn says, staring hard at the glass of barely-touched vodka on the table.

"Pussy." Daryl snorts, but his glass stays on the table, too.

T-Dog cracks open one eye and lifts his head off his forearm. "Jeez, man." He slurs. "Way to kill the mood."

"Think that happened awhile ago." Andrea sighs, rubbing her face. This game always makes her feel like this: like a cheap suit worn too long. But she isn't going to stop now. For the first time she feels like they've all had some kind of breakthrough, some kind of bonding experience. Isn't that the point?

"I'm serious." Glenn says, his young face sad and forlorn. "I've never been in love." He says honestly. "I've never felt that rush of wanting to be with someone, of wanting to give everything of yourself to that other person, to be everything for them. Now I worry that I'm never going to feel it."

"Sounds like some weak-ass shit to me." Daryl snorts.

Three sets of eyes turn to Andrea then, who's remained staunchly quiet throughout. "What?" She says when she notices their scrutiny, her voice echoing around the completely empty mess hall. "Why are you looking at me?"

"C'mon, Andrea!" Glenn exclaims. "You haven't answered the question!"

"Neither have these guys!" Andrea exclaims.

T-Dog holds up a hand in surrender. "If I have any more liquor I'm gonna puke." He mumbles.

Daryl holds his hands up. "You already got my answer." He says seriously.

Sighing to herself, Andrea picks up her glass and knocks the whole thing back. Appropriately, it burns all the way down and makes her feel sick. She's going to pay for this, later. But she's not bothered enough to stop. "I was in love, once." She says sombrely.

"Just once?" Glenn asks, almost afraid that if he doesn't prompt her, she won't speak. And isn't that what they're doing now? Speaking with prompts?

She nods, her eyes on the empty glass she twirls in her hands. "Just once."

"Well, what was it like?" Glenn presses.

Andrea shrugs. "Made me feel invincible." She says softly. "Made me feel strong. Like I could do anything, be anybody, go anywhere."

Glenn mimics Andrea's shrug. "So what happened?" He presses.

Andrea shakes her head. "Nothing." She says eventually, pressing her lips together as she feels two intense stares on the crown of her dipped head. "It just wasn't meant to be. He went his way and I went mine."

"Jeez." Glenn says.

"You asked, man." Daryl says.

T-Dog falls off his chair and lands on the floor. Glenn sighs.

"I'll get him to his room." He says, bidding them both goodnight.

It's a struggle, but soon they're gone and it's just Andrea and Daryl and a palpable tension settles across the room.

Daryl smiles and pours some more drink. "I have never sat across from a lawyer I didn't hate." He says, taking a drink.

She smiles at the backhanded compliment. "I have never sat across from a redneck I didn't want to punch." She returns easily, reaching for her drink.

It's easy then, to talk about themselves, to use the numbing, candid blanket of booze coupled with a wall of well-phrased questions. The game becomes a way of awkwardly guiding the other through parts of their lives they haven't visited in a while and are only accessible through questions. They phrase their lives in terms of things done and not done: I have never had sex in the back of a truck. I have never cheated on a test. I have never wanted to strangle my parents. I have never wondered about what will happen today, or tomorrow, or next week.

Eventually, they run out of liquor and things to say and so they just sit opposite each other, watching the other, empty glasses and bottles a silent audience to their mutual scrutiny. It's like they've just woken up to the fact that the other exists, and might be worth knowing. There's an electricity in the air that Andrea can't decide is booze or something else. Either way, it's probably best they don't try to test it out tonight. The results might be catastrophic in the morning.

While Daryl ambles off to get them some water, Andrea moves into the rec room, gently touching the books and records that line the shelves and litter the sofas. There's a boombox in the corner and she idly presses play, smiling when a slow, sad country-sounding tune begins to play. She's got no idea who it is, but its melodic and mournful, suits her mood precisely. Closing her eyes, she begins to gently shuffle on the spot to the beat, letting the music wash over her and knock down the walls that booze has weakened. She can't remember the last time she heard music and she's surprised that she can stand up, but she pushes all that away, letting the music wash over her and ignoring the swirliness and multicoloured lights that are exploding behind her closed lids. Oh yeah, she's really going to pay for this later.

"You shuffle pretty good for a city girl who's wasted." His voice cuts through her dancing and he moves towards her, bearing two glasses of water. "Wondered where you'd gotten to. Figured you'd passed out or somethin'."

"Just wanted to hear some music." She says, taking a long drink. His presence is enough to jolt her out of her comfortable numbness. She can feel melancholia returning. Suddenly, she just doesn't want to be alone. She doesn't want to sleep with him, or to even kiss him (although now she's thought about not doing it, she kinda wants to, to see if she wants to), but ... she wants to be held, if just for a little while. And they might die tomorrow, right?

"I have never danced with a redneck to a country tune." She says softly.

He smirks at her, but takes her glass, sets it down next to his and holds out his hand anyway.

His palm is rough when it takes her hand and tugs her closer, deep into his personal space. His hand clasps hers tightly, the other snaking around her back, resting in the hollow of her back, where it meets her ass. His fingers splay out, holding her firm. And then he pulls her closer and her chest is pressed against his and she wonders just how many times he has done this, danced with forlorn embittered women to sad country tunes in backwoods bars, half-cut with booze. Its a sad way of looking at it, because its a sombre parody of what they're doing here, now. So she doesn't think about it anymore and just closes her eyes to avoid his blue gaze and lets herself just be. He smells like unscented soap and Carol's laundry detergent, and something beneath that, something woodsy and fresh. She fights the urge to audibly inhale a lungful, just to see what it's like, get a better measure of him. _I have never smelled a man before_, she thinks, fighting the urge to drunkenly laugh at a joke she probably won't find funny the next day.

His stubble brushes the side of her forehead as his head tilts down slightly. She hadn't realised how tall he is; not a giant, but taller than her by several inches. The crown of her head brushes against the bridge of his nose. He's deceptively bulky, too; not big and buff, but powerful. He's gently shuffling them on the spot rather than dancing, his hand clasping hers so loosely that when her head drifts to her shoulder, it's easy for his hand to gently touch her shoulder before sliding down to join the other at her waist while hers goes around his neck. She opens her eyes to find that he's closed his eyes now, too. Maybe she isn't the only one who needs some comfort.

It might be the booze, and it might be Daryl Dixon, but suddenly she's never been gladder to be in someone's arms, listening to a melancholy tune as it hits her again that her sister's dead. She can feel her tears soaking her cheeks and Daryl's shirt and she moves to bolt, but his arms tighten, holding her steady.

"I have never heard a sad girl cry on me about her dead sister." He says softly in her ear.

She closes her eyes, feeling her whole body begin to tremble as his words sink in. She knows that he doesn't offer or need much comfort in his life, but he seems to know that she needs this right now, desperately needs to have someone hold her and help her carry this awful burden that she's carrying around, just for a little while. So she turns her head further into Daryl's chest and sobs and sobs until her eyes are dry.

###

He walks her back to her room. Neither mention the tears that still soak Daryl's shirt, or the way that they have seemingly woken up to the other's presence. It isn't much, it isn't anything really, its more ... a mutual awareness of the other, realised at the same time and in the other's presence. She isn't sure that it means anything at all. It probably won't, in the morning. Not in that way, anyway. He'll go back to being Daryl and she'll go back to being Andrea, and neither of them will speak of this night, when he was the country boy with a shoulder to cry on and a mournful tune and she was the sad girl with the dead sister.

As she's about to step into her room. She catches his arm. It can't hurt to say thanks, after all.

"I have never felt lonely." She says softly, her pupils boring into his. Neither blink.

"Me either." He says eventually. It's only a handful of words; seven between them, but somehow, they're enough.

"Good night, Daryl." She says.

"'night, Andrea."

TBC ...


	8. Talking is Overrated

Talking is Overrated.

Okay, so I haven't seen 2.06 yet but I've seen the trailers and read enough reviews to be like: SHANE AND ANDREA? Are you kidding me? So I did a little tally of fics here on (always an accurate gauge of fans' desires, LOL) and there is one Shane/Andrea fic, one Daryl/Carol fic and TWENTY-SEVEN Daryl/Andrea fics, twenty-six if you discount one that's implied Dale/Andrea. Are we the only ones who see that these guys could have a totally watchable, compelling relationship? And I thought that Shane was meant to be crazy in love with Lori? Whatever. Anyway, enough of my ranting ...

Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did then things would be very different ...

###

At some point after they leave the CDC she starts riding with Daryl. He doesn't look pleased when he gets into his beat-up truck and finds her in the passenger seat nervously working a thumbnail, her rucksack stowed in the narrow space between the back of the cab and the passenger seat, but he doesn't ask her to leave and that's all the invitation she needs.

He doesn't say anything once they're on the road, churning up the miles to wherever they're going, his car stereo playing some kind of bluegrass music that she doesn't recognise, the melodies filling the silence with more ease than she expected. She knows that he's probably the most taciturn of the group (why she wanted to ride with him) but she would have expected something, _anything_ to fill the silence. But he doesn't say anything.

They don't talk about that one night they spent in the CDC, when she was the sad girl with the dead sister and he was the country boy with the shoulder to cry on. They don't talk about their mutual admissions of loneliness. They don't talk about that new, mutual awareness of the other, which came upon them at the same time and slipped between them like lovers between crisp white bed sheets. It isn't romantic, it isn't lust, it's just there, a shift in how they look at each other. It fills the space in the cab more effectively than another person, more baggage or any talk they could utter. So they don't talk about it. Just like they don't talk about their respective absent siblings or the fact that she was prepared to stay behind with Jacqui and Jenner and blow herself sky high.

They just don't talk.

You can talk without words, of course. Or at least, she and Daryl seem to have perfected it: the art of the silent, closed-mouthed conversation. Eyes can be far more talkative, eloquent and honest instruments of conversation than a mouth, which is often a crude, blunt instrument that tends to be woefully inarticulate, even if it is attached to the more erudite brain. And Daryl's eyes are talking a whole lot right now. She can feel him watching her, feel his arctic blue gaze on the side of her face, but he keeps his own counsel. She isn't sure why. Maybe its because he doesn't know what to say to her, wouldn't trust what came out of his mouth. If she was him, she wouldn't know what to say to her, either. She wouldn't want to hear anything: no rants, no admonishments, no probing questions. She'd just want to sit in his truck and let the music fill the silence.

Back in her old life, she had been surrounded by men who liked to talk, who were so in love with the sound of their own voices that it blunted the meaning behind the words they spoke. Too much talk was an occupational hazard of being a lawyer, after all. Once upon a time she had found such men attractive. Now? More and more she finds herself appreciating the silences. There are some times for which words just aren't necessary. There are some things for which no words will ever be enough.

Daryl's one of the only people who gets that.

It only takes one or two pit stops before the others start asking why she isn't riding with Dale, or Glenn, or T-Dog, or even Shane, like Daryl's some kind of pariah or it's abnormal for her to not want to ride with the others. She understands on one level. They weren't there, in the rec room. They didn't see the understanding in his eyes, hadn't been privy to the way she fisted his shirt and soaked it through with tears with a slow country soundtrack.

But there's other reasons, too. All other things aside, there's a rationale behind her logic, behind her choosing Daryl's truck. A part of her wishes that there wasn't, that she could say that she doesn't know why she rides with Daryl, why she prefers his often uncouth, blunt personality to everyone else's, but she does know and the answer isn't what the others want to hear.

She rides with Daryl because there's only room in his truck for two people: him and her.

She rides with Daryl because he doesn't ask her how she is. He lets her be.

She rides with Daryl because he doesn't much care whether or not she tried to kill herself in the CDC blast (or at least, that's how it seems to her) and right now she's really, _really_ sick of people caring when they have no business doing so. Unlike everyone else, there's no social filter with Daryl, no veneer that humanity deploys to cover the myriad of private thoughts and commentary that aren't socially acceptable. He just says what he thinks. Or he says nothing at all. He doesn't feel the need to ask her how she's doing every goddamned minute of every goddamned day.

Until one time, he does. Or at least, she thinks he does. Or maybe he's just trying to get rid of her.

"Plenty of room in the RV, y'know?" He says, his words exploding into the silence no matter how softly they're uttered, his eyes only half on the road as he watches her.

He's a surprisingly cautious driver, keeping his distance from the Grimes family which spearheads their convoy. There's been some discussion about them all carpooling into one vehicle and the RV, to conserve fuel and cannibalise the others for parts. Judging by the noises that the RV is making, Andrea has a feeling that that discussion is only going to get more insistent as time goes on.

Andrea would _love_ to see Dale try and take a screwdriver and pliers to Daryl's truck for parts.

She sighs. "I'll switch over when we next stop." She says wearily, wiping at the sweat on her brow. Its almost unbearably hot in his truck, even with the windows down. She can feel the sweat run down her chest and back but the last thing she wants to do is go sit in the RV. It smells like stale bodies and no-one wants to sit on the bed where Jim pretty much turned into a zombie right before their eyes. In fact, when she thinks about it, one of the first things she's going to do when they're able to is burn that RV: Jim almost died in there and Amy got bit right on the steps. It feels haunted, heavy with baggage. But maybe it's more of an allegory for their lives right now: cumbersome, held together with duct tape and parts stolen from things that aren't theirs, a moving testament to their struggles.

She stops right there before she can think any more because it's giving her a headache. Allegories – is she serious? She needs to think less. Or maybe just think in a different way.

He shrugs easily. "Makes no difference to me." He says simply, although he looks a little uncomfortable when he says his next piece. "Though I think Dale misses you. And Carol. She asked me what we talk about, if you're doin' okay."

_Ah_, Andrea realises. He's an unwilling emissary from the others. They put him up to this. She can't imagine that he would have gotten involved without a famous, should-be-patented Dixon Anger Outburst so her guess is that it was Carol who was the ringleader; Daryl might be many things but he's not a bully, especially not of women and especially not of victims of domestic abuse. He saw Carol's bruises too, after all. Plus ... bullying of all forms was Merle's game, not Daryl's. Since his brother's rather inglorious departure from their group, she's never seen him utter anything other than bluntly kind words to the remaining women of the group.

"Well what did you say?" She asks.

He gives her a quizzical look. "What the fuck could I say?" He says honestly. "You ain't said two words to me this entire time."

"Which is why I wanted to ride with you." She deadpans.

He smiles at that. "And here I was thinkin' it was my good looks and southern charm."

When she actually laughs out loud, he's torn between looking offended and pleased.

They drive the rest of the way in silence until the convoy makes a pit stop for a bathroom break and to siphon gas from cars. It's not until Andrea moves to get into the car with Glenn and T-Dog that Daryl calls her name and quirks his head expectantly towards his passenger seat.

"I thought you wanted me out of the truck?" She says as she slams the door behind her.

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Figured you'd miss the silences." He says simply.

"Thanks." She says gratefully. He gives her a smirk, their eyes catching and holding until Shane honks his horn behind them, indicating that they're moving on.

They drive the rest of the way in silence until a road block and a problem with the RV brings them all to a standstill.

TBC ...


	9. Don't Leave

Don't Leave.

A/N: Because having watched S1 and S2 (I went out and treated myself to S1) back to back (minus 2.01 and 2.03 which have somehow gone AWOL) I was frankly astounded by the level of character development and maturation that Daryl gets – all good, of course!

I just watched 2.06. Can you say, 'Woefully contrived sexual chemistry?' Because that's what Shane and Andrea were in that episode. Seriously. The five-second scene between Daryl and Andrea (which, IMHO was one of the crappiest apologies ever. But don't worry, I plan to fix that soon!) had more frisson than the rest of the episode combined. Except for maybe Maggie and Glenn – I feel for that poor kid, I really do.

Disclaimer: None of its mine. If it was, Daryl Dixon would be next to me in my bed instead of an oversized penguin stuffed toy.

###

Andrea can remember the day she stops viewing herself as a lawyer. It's silly, the labels and perceptions they assign to themselves and to each other: she's a lawyer, Rick's a cop, Dale's a retiree, Glenn's a pizza delivery guy. For a start it's all defined by profession, which is understandable, in a way, at least from her point of view. Everyone has to be defined in some way, by some metric, and her work had been her life. It consumed most of her twenties, was the altar upon which she sacrificed relationships with friends, family, love. Her profession became as much a part of her personality as the fact that she needed to catch the fish rather than throw them back. With such a mindset, it was only inevitable that she apply that to others. Funny how perceptions change. They aren't static. They're as exclusive as they are inclusive, as reactive as they are proactive, shaping and being shaped by your perception of others.

She remembers the day she stopped thinking about herself as a lawyer for several reasons.

Firstly, it was because it didn't seem so bad for once, not being a lawyer. The question of what to put in the 'profession' box of her tax return did tend to fade into insignificance when faced with a missing girl and a forest potentially full of walkers.

Secondly, it coincides with her finally abandoning her perception of Daryl as a vile-tempered, argumentative asshole. He's still those things, to be sure, but he's more than that. He's the country boy with the sad song and the shoulder to cry on, and that's coming through more and more now.

Merle's disappearance undoubtedly has something to do with it. She doesn't know if it's because Merle was an enabler for Daryl's inner asshole tendencies (he can still be a surly, abrasive asshole at times but at least now he's more discerning about it) or since Merle's gone he realises that he'd better start making friends with the rest of the group, but since Merle disappeared, Daryl's personality has altered. Unless it had always been there and she'd just never noticed.

Thirdly, it's when he asks her not to leave.

It's not asking so much, not really. It's more a suggestion. Or at least, that's what they'll probably tell outside observers if asked.

"Overheard your conversation with Shane." He says to her, the pair of them atop the roof of the RV while Dale makes repairs and Carol wears a hole in the floor of the RV worrying about Sophia and Carl. "You really thinkin' 'bout leavin'?"

Andrea shrugs. "Shane's thinking about it." She says. Correction: right now Shane was thinking about Carl and Lori.

Daryl audibly snorts. "You and Shane thinkin' about roadtrippin'?" He asks.

"What's it to you?" Andrea says, with more force than she initially intends. It isn't his business, after all.

Daryl holds up his hands in mock-surrender. "Hey, don't get in my face about it – your business is your business."

"Thanks for pointing that out."

"I'm just sayin' ... whatever it is you're looking for, I don't think you're gonna find it out there and especially not with Shane." There's a slight sneer to his voice then which isn't there when he talks about the others, not even Rick. Clearly he's not a fan of Shane.

"I think I liked you better when you didn't say anything." Andrea says, moving to walk away until Daryl catches her arm. It's one of the first times they've ever had skin-on-skin contact and she can feel his body heat sear up her arm.

"I'm serious." He says, his blue eyes close on hers. "Shane ain't exactly altogether there, if you hadn't noticed."

"He'd say the same thing about you." Andrea retorts.

Daryl's got no response to that but his eyes narrow slightly as though she's said something hurtful. The pair glare at each other for several seconds until Andrea jerks her arm away and stalks off. They pass the rest of their watch in silence.

###

Daryl grinds his teeth and bites his nails as he watches Andrea out of the corner of his eye. They're meant to be on watch but she's almost certainly asleep, he can tell from the droop of her shoulders, her soft, low, steady breathing.

Its then it hits him: she's leaving. Or at least, she's seriously considering it.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn't know how to feel about it.

He shouldn't care. That's how he _should_ feel about it. He should shrug nonchalantly and say, "It's your business." Which it is. And he has. There just isn't any feeling behind it. It _is_ her business whether she chooses to go or stay, not his. He doesn't blame her for wanting to leave. He's thought about it himself often enough. Less and less with each passing day, though.

That should bother him as much as Andrea's leaving should bother him. Merle would call him weak; tell him that he's become soft, a poodle, a pussy, a pansy and every other derisive word he can think of.

Daryl used to believe him but now he's not so sure. Is it weak to start to care about this ragtag bunch he's fallen in with? Surely he's no weaker here than he is out there, alone without backup or medicine? Merle doesn't - didn't, he corrects himself – see it that way, but Merle's metric of what's weak and what isn't doesn't seem to hold true so much these days.

He watches Andrea again. If he's unsure about her leaving then he's damned sure she shouldn't be doing it with Shane. Shane's different to Rick, even though Grimes said they were partners and friends and apparently have the same taste in women. It took Daryl a little while but he's finally figured out that Rick Grimes isn't so bad for a lawman, isn't so bad at all, really. He loves his family, cares about the people here. He's fair and respectful to others. He's not like any lawman Daryl's ever met. He's a lawman and a leader Daryl doesn't actually mind doing stuff for.

Shane's another matter entirely. Every once in a while he'll get a look in his eye, a crazy look that almost reminds him of Merle, although he knows that most people think Shane's too much like Daryl; too angry, too quick to temper, too aggressive. It's all true, every bit of it. But Shane's skating very close to the ledge now. Daryl doesn't know how much other people can see it (he suspects that Dale might be getting at least suspicious, and Lori hasn't looked at him since the CDC, when he appeared with neck marks that were in no way caused by his stubby, bitten nails), but he does: at some point, Shane will lose it and he doesn't want Andrea to be with him, alone, surrounded by walkers when he does.

Again with Andrea.

Merle would be horrified if he could see his and Andrea's interactions, see the way Daryl's starting to look at Andrea, see the softness that creeps into his gaze and his voice when he sees her now. He doesn't know when it happened, exactly. Somewhere between bottles of booze and slow country songs and 'I have never been lonely' and his battered truck churning up miles of Georgia highway. He's not even sure what it is, what he feels. He just knows that for the first time in his life, he doesn't want someone to leave him.

###

"Still plannin' on leavin'?" He asks her the next day as she's cleaning her teeth in the brook, just a ways from the RV.

They plan to stay here another day at least to search for Sophia before joining the others at the farmhouse. Andrea can tell that Daryl's antsy about this farmhouse and what it means. She's not entirely sure what she feels about it herself.

"Why?" She asks, spitting and rinsing. "You looking to join us?"

Daryl snorts. "Please." He says. "So are you?" He asks again.

"Why? Would you miss me?" When he doesn't reply, the pair stare at each other until it starts to become a little uncomfortable, their eyes doing that talking thing again. He might not say it, but Daryl's eyes are speaking volumes.

"I just think it's a bad idea, is all." He says eventually. "This world ain't a place for a woman to go off with someone she barely knows, is all."

"Thanks for the advice."

He shrugs. "It's your funeral."

"Yeah, it is." Andrea says, feeling her voice begin to get a little sharp, like it does when she knows people are keeping things from her, things that they're feeling. She can see that he's feeling something, that there's emotion flickering behind those brilliant blue eyes. But he's not talking about it and she's not going to be able to get him to talk.

"Can see why you want to." He says later as they're looking for Sophia. "Can see why you'd want to high-tail it out of here. Can't be easy, memories of Amy and all."

"Leave my sister out of it!" Andrea snaps furiously. The pair glare at each other for several seconds before she speaks again. "I'm surprised you haven't left already." She retorts.

He shrugs. "Thought about it." He admits candidly.

That makes her stop. "So why are you here?" She asks. "Why haven't you left, gone off to search for your brother?"

His blue eyes bore into his. "Sometimes ... its easier to run." He says softly. "Its harder, stayin', makin' a stand, makin' a life. I don't know what happened to my brother, don't know if he's still alive. But I do know that I didn't have much of a life when we were together. And I know that Carol and Sophia won't have much of a life if we just bail. Rick, Lori and Carl neither."

"Your sentimentality is touching." She says.

But she thinks about it, thinks about his words. Maybe he's right. She never thought she'd hear herself say it, but she did: he's right. It's easier to run, sometimes. It's harder to stay, to accept the new world, to stand and fight for something. And whether she likes it or not, they're all something to each other now. She isn't sure what, but she isn't a lawyer anymore, just like Daryl isn't a redneck and Glenn doesn't deliver pizzas and Rick's not a cop. She isn't sure what metric of perception she's going to use in place of profession, but she'll think of something.

She'll think of something while she stays.

TBC ...


	10. Sleep

Sleep.

I will do one for 2.05 and 2.06. I WILL. Because I still hold out hope for these two and if the writers decide that isn't where they want to go ... then this will just become AU. There, I said it.

Many, _many_ thanks to all the lovely people here who have reviewed, I know that I have a die-hard cluster of reviewers who review every chapter and every fic that I write, so many thanks for that. Makes my day when I see your reviews. Maybe if our Daryl-Andrea dreams crash and burn we should start some kind of therapy group. Anything to help get the image of THAT crotch grab out of our minds. *Shudders*

Disclaimer: Absolutely not mine. If it was then none of that retina-scarring car scene would have happened.

I picked _The Painted Veil_ here for a number of reasons. Firstly, because I'm reading it right now and I'm lazy. And secondly, because I feel like the ethos of what I've read so far fits here. I also had Christina Perri's 'A Thousand Years' on repeat while I wrote this, so it might have made the fic a little fluffier than expected. Oh well. But my point is that I don't own either of these things, either. No copyright infringement intended.

Hope you enjoy!

###

Its late; the night sky is black as the dirt on the floor, the stars outside thrown in a haphazard pattern across the deep purple-black sky. The farmhouse is at slumber. Almost.

"Didn't expect to find you in here." Daryl's whisper cuts through the silence in Carl's bedroom and Andrea jumps in fright, dropping the book she had been reading on the floor.

"You scared me!" She exclaims, clutching at her chest. "I thought you were camping outside." She says.

He shrugs as he steps into Carl's bedroom. "Herschel asked me if I wanted to use the shower." He says. "Can't remember the last time I washed in something that wasn't a stream or brook."

Andrea looks a little closer as he comes into the bedroom. His hair's wet from the shower, his skin bright in that clean, scrubbed way. His clothes are the same: jeans, boots, a grey shirt that might have been white at one time, but they look cleaner too. He even looks like he might have shaved. But then, that could have been a trick of the light. Either way, she feels that mutual awareness uncurl in her stomach. Its getting to be something of a constant companion now, when she looks and thinks about Daryl. She's going to have to either act on it, or forget about it. She just isn't sure which, yet.

He shifts a little, as though suddenly aware of her scrutiny. "Rick an' Lori asleep?" He asks.

Andrea nods, her gaze on Carl. "I offered to take over while they slept." She says, shaking her head as she remembers the defeated, exhausted look in Lori's eyes as she gratefully accepted Andrea's help. The Grimeses have passed out – literally – in the room next door. All the others are either sleep or are watching the house.

"How's the camp?" She asks. It's weird, spending the night in a house once more, even if this one has a _Little House on the Prairie_ feel to it, but it's not unwelcome. Herschel and his family might be a few sandwiches short of a full picnic, but the house feels safer than sleeping in flimsy tents and her back is very happy about the battered couch that Rick and Shane brought into Carl's bedroom. It's a welcome change from sleeping bags on hard ground.

Daryl shrugs and eases himself a little more into the room. "Same." He says. "Dale and Shane are watchin' out for walkers. Been tryin' to sleep but I can't." There's a shadow in his eyes when he mentions Shane, a darkness that hasn't quite been there before. She makes a mental note to ask him about it when both of them aren't so tired.

"I know that feeling." Andrea says. It's odd, staying in one place for a while, particularly a place that's so normal its weird. It's like the zombie apocalypse happened and everyone here just slept through it.

Moving her legs, she pats the sofa next to her on a whim. "Plenty of room here if you want to rest awhile." She says.

He looks from her to the couch and back again, clearly unsure what the catch is. She sighs. Sometimes she swears that the small steps they've been making since the CDC count for nothing. Does he think she's going to jump him? Kill him?

"I won't bite." She says patiently.

"I know." He says softly, crossing the room to sit down next to her, the couch moving and shifting under the extra weight. He's still holding onto his crossbow, resting it across his lap. She wonders if he ever truly lets his guard down, either emotionally or physically.

"How's he doin?" He asks, struggling to make himself comfortable. The sofa jostles and bucks under their combined weights and after several minutes' wriggling and shifting, he's finally comfortable.

"He's okay, I guess." Andrea says, her eyes on the sleeping boy. "He pulled through the surgery so Herschel's hopeful he'll make a full recovery."

"Lucky kid." Daryl says, closing his eyes. He looks tired, more exhausted than the rest of the group except for maybe Lori and Rick. She's never realised just how tired he looks until now. "You should rest a little." She says softly, suddenly aware that he's next to her and he's warm and clean and his shoulder looks really, _really_ comfortable.

"Might close my eyes for a minute." He mumbles, his eyes long since closed.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Andrea alternating between listening to Carl and Daryl's deep, steady, almost synchronised breathing. It feels so normal, sitting here, like some bizarre parody of a family. If she squints, or closes her eyes just slightly, it feels a lot more normal than it should, sat in a house with a man sleeping next to her on the couch, cut adrift from the rest of the world. She's missed this, missed the moments of normalcy that had fallen through the cracks of their new life. She's forgotten what it is to just catch a breath and share it with someone else. Right now, it feels nice.

"What were ya readin'?" He asks, his voice groggy and thick with sleep. She smiles. He's at that stage of quasi-sleep where he probably doesn't even know what he's saying.

"Old book. _The Painted Veil_. Found it in a pile of books in the other bedroom."

"Never heard of it."

"It's good. About life, love, two people who get married, live through earth-shattering events, fall in love."

"Sounds like horseshit." He mumbles.

"No." Andrea says, shaking her head wistfully, her fingers on the soft paperback cover. "No, its kinda sad, actually." She says, slightly leaning back against his left shoulder.

"That so?" He mumbles. If he's uncomfortable with their new intimacy, then he doesn't show it. If anything, he fidgets until they're more comfortable.

"Yeah." Andrea says. "They don't much like each other at the start. But sometimes the biggest distance is the space between two people."

"Obviously the author'd never gone hunting." Daryl snorts.

Andrea laughs at that. "True enough." She says.

Daryl shifts a little more then, so she's part-leaning on his shoulder, part-leaning on his chest. "How's it end?" He mumbles, his words blunted and muffled by her hair.

"I haven't got to the end yet. They're about to go into China. There's a cholera outbreak."

"Sounds nasty."

"It is."

They sit like this for a long time, Andrea offering comments as she reads the book, Daryl offering blunt commentary that soon descents into the idle, random noises of sleep. The crossbow slides off of his lap and lands with a soft thump and click on the floor, next to his feet. Soon the book slides out of Andrea's hands as she too falls asleep, her head resting comfortably on Daryl's shoulder. Her sleep is deep and dreamless, buoyed by the smells of crossbow lubricant the earthy, peaty Georgia earth. His breath is light in her ear, like a blanket on a cool day. Its the best night's sleep she's had since everything began.

###

Carol wasn't going to pass up the chance to use a proper bathroom, no matter what time it was. It's how she finds herself standing outside the Greene farmhouse bathroom in the early hours of the morning, watching the sunlight filter through the open window and into Carl Grimes' bedroom. She's not watching Carl though. She's watching his two guardians, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. It's one of the first sights that's warmed her heart since this whole mess started, and it's only fitting that it be the two most damaged members of the group who find comfort in each other, even if it is just a good nights' sleep on an old couch in an isolated farmhouse.

They're lying fully-clothed on the couch, Daryl's bigger body barely squeezing onto the overstuffed, old piece of furniture. His left leg is hanging off the end of the couch, his heel on the armrest. The right leg splays out on the cushion, his foot on the floor. Andrea's sprawled on top of him, her left leg brought up to gently rest on his hip. Her head's on his right shoulder, buried in the crook of his neck, her left hand resting on his shoulder. His left hand's gently cupping her back, his face pressed against hers. They're the picture of peace and serenity, a reminder that even amid this swirling, never ending shit storm it's possible to find the good in other people, to seek and find moments of closeness and intimacy in a world where intimacy is both dangerous and ever-more desired. When people feel like they're going to die tomorrow, they want to feel something _now_, but they don't want to get too attached in case that other person dies tomorrow.

Carol thinks that in the case of Daryl and Andrea, whether they realise it or not, it might be too late for that, too late to unattach themselves. Neither of them are the type to let their guard down which is why this image speaks so much to her: time at slumber is when your guard is most down. She doesn't blame them. Andrea's become so jaded by what's happened and Daryl was jaded long before Carol ever met him. But beneath that, she knows that there's something good about him, something about Daryl Dixon that's worth knowing. She's just pleased that someone else has finally seen it, too. And she's pleased that Andrea's finally letting someone help her, even if it is just to get a good night's sleep.

She takes a blanket from the bottom of Carl's bed and gently draped it over the sleeping pair, feeling better now that she's hidden some of their intimacy from others. She catches her foot on Daryl's crossbow, which lies abandoned on the floor, next to a half-open copy of W. Somerset Maugham's _Painted Veil_, and Carol smiles at that as she reaches for the worn paperback. She hasn't read much literature but she has read that and its one of her favourites. Gently placing the book and the crossbow on the bureau, she slips out of the room before they can wake.

###

Andrea and Carol are hanging laundry later that day when Daryl approaches them. "Headin' out on one of Herschel's horses to look for Sophia." He says.

Carol gives him an intensely grateful look. "Thank you." She says sincerely.

"Be careful." Andrea says, giving him a small, almost secret smile. She's still thinking about what it was like to wake up with him this morning. He smirks at her as he passes; clearly he's thinking about it, too.

It's not until he's out of earshot that Carol speaks again. "Saw you were reading _The Painted Veil_." She says.

Andrea blushes. If Carol saw that then she probably saw her and Daryl's impromptu sleepover. "Uh ... yeah." She says.

"How are you finding it? I read it in college, really enjoyed it."

Andrea nods. "I haven't finished it, but what I've read, I've enjoyed."

"Good." Carol said, her eyes on the laundry they're doing. Andrea wonders at how she's dealing with everything. Ed might have been a shit but he was still her husband. Carol has a quiet strength that's sometimes overlooked. Andrea has no idea what she'd do if it was her kid lost in the woods. Or worse.

Carol's talking again. "You know what I liked about it?" She asks, her gaze drifting over Andrea's shoulder, to the stables beyond.

"What's that?" Andrea asks, following Carol's gaze to the stables, where Daryl is saddling a beautiful brown horse, gently stroking her flanks as he swings his body into the saddle.

"I liked how Kitty learns to love Walter." Carol said, smiling at Andrea. "She doesn't see it at first, but Walter's a good man. She only sees what she wants to see. But her perception of him changes over time. She learns what it is to be truly loved, and to love in return."

"Yeah." Andrea says, her eyes on the lone figure on horseback, slowly going off into the forest to search for Sophia once more.

TBC ...


	11. A Question of Ownership

A Question of Ownership.

A slightly different opinion on Daryl and Andrea, with a little bit of Andrea POV at the end.

Because you know that a) nothing can be kept secret on this show, not when they all live in tents and everyone's slowly beginning to go mad, and b) that making assumptions about ownership and relationships can be a dangerous thing.

In terms of timeframe, this is between 2.04 and 2.05, before 2.06. I'll warn you, its a little silly, and fluffy. Its ... silffy. Flufly I'll stop now.

Lucifer's Garden: I think that 'A Thousand Years' might well be a good tune for our couple! I just discovered it the other day (I had no idea it was on the Breaking Dawn soundtrack!) and have had it on repeat ever since. Its a wonderful song!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

###

T-Dog might have almost had a breakdown after his near-death infection, but he isn't stupid. He's just quiet. And he's observant. Not in the way that Dale is (who really needs to start minding his own business, if Andrea's reaction was anything to go by), or the way that Carol is (although she's certainly useful to bounce ideas off), but he knows things. People often forget that he's got two fully-functioning eyes and two fully-functional ears and tent walls are thin and people like to talk. Incessantly. If it wasn't so illuminating it would be really annoying. Sometimes he feels like he's wandered into some kind of soap opera. And today, he realises that he actually has. Forget zombies, it's going to be angst that kills him.

He knows a True Blue pregnancy kit when he sees one. He'd held one in his hand when his sister proudly showed it to him and announced that he was going to become an uncle. It was such a happy time, it's not an image he's likely to forget. An uncle. He was going to be an uncle.

He's not going to be an uncle now, or ever again. Not in a blood way, anyway. But someone here is going to be a father, which means that in their weird quasi-family, he is going to be an uncle of sorts.

The stick's hidden, carefully buried beneath the tree in the yard, behind a felled stump, meaning that someone didn't want it to be found. He would never have spied it had he not angrily kicked at the dirt after that walker contaminated the well. Were they never going to catch a break? So he took his anger out on the dirt.

And the dirt coughed up a baby. Or at least, the promise of one.

It's new, that much is certain. It's dusty but not filthy. And it's definitely a positive. Which means that someone in the group or the farm is pregnant.

He discounts the women on the farm almost immediately. The women that are there are way too old and the young girl is so dopey looking he doubts she's even noticed that boys are, well, boys. Except Maggie.

That leaves the survivors from the quarry. His new family.

The way he sees it, there's one pregnancy kit and four possible couples. And while he might not say much, everyone else has assumed that because he's been sick and he's kept himself to himself, he doesn't see. He doesn't listen.

Assumptions can be dangerous.

But he's not making assumptions here. There are four couples here on the farm and someone owns this pregnancy kit.

Maggie and Glenn.

Lori and Rick.

Lori and Shane.

Andrea and Daryl.

He discounts Maggie and Glenn almost straight away. While they've been blatantly eye-fucking since they got back from the pharmacy run, he knows that even modern pregnancy tests can't be _that_ accurate.

Which leaves three couples: two women, three men.

Granted, he wouldn't have put Andrea and Daryl together at first, but somehow ... they make sense together. In an insane world, they're a sane choice for the other. Whether it's their mutually-closed off expressions, their comfortable gait when they walk together, that bizarre staring thing they do with each other now, or imbibing copious amounts of alcohol to numb the pain of their dead and missing siblings, T-Dog can't imagine them with anyone else in the group. He doesn't understand why they don't just share a tent and make it official. They share everything else: drink, Daryl's truck, a couch in Carl Grimes' bedroom (Carol wasn't the only one who saw that). They may as well just confirm what everyone else already knows. He figures that since Shane's off doing whatever and Lori and Rick are still with Carl, he'll start with them.

"Just leave it alone." Glenn says when T-Dog informs him of his discovery and his plan. He looks horrified that T-Dog has even brought it up. "Seriously. Leave. It. Alone. You do _not_ want to be meddling with this."

"So you knew about this?" T-Dog says as the pair sit on the farmhouse's front porch, idly strumming on the guitar that Dale found on the highway.

Glenn's guilty expression is all the answer T-Dog needs.

"So you know who it belongs to!" T-Dog continues.

"I can't say." Glenn says, his cheeks flushing scarlet. He looks like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

"Can't say what about what?" Andrea says as she steps onto the front porch of the Greene farm, her rifle slung over her shoulder. She's been taking lessons from Shane and Rick and she's getting really good. Her gaze drifts from the pregnancy stick in T-Dog's hand to their mutually surprised expressions and a smirk graces her lips.

"You guys will be great parents!" She exclaims.

"It's not mine!" The two men chorus.

Andrea looks confused. "So whose is it?" She says, only half-joking.

Glenn looks mortified and darts off the porch. Andrea sighs. "Oh Glenn." She says, shaking her head slightly. "Don't tell me he's knocked Maggie up already?"

T-Dog can feel his cheeks colour. "Actually ... I was kinda thinking it might be yours." He says sheepishly.

Andrea's jaw hangs open. "Mine?" She exclaims. "You think it's _mine_?"

"It was just a thought." T-Dog mumbles. This is starting to look like a _really_ bad idea, because if it isn't Andrea's then it can only be Lori's, and that's a hornet's nest he really doesn't want to be prodding.

"Well un-think it!" Andrea snaps, a touch sharper than she should, really. Her gaze narrows then, and suddenly that's a hell of a lot worse than her yelling at him. "And just _who_ did you think was the father of this mythical child?" She demands.

"Whatcha all gassin' 'bout?" Daryl grumbles as her ascends the front porch steps, crossbow in hand. He's been searching for Sophia and he's covered in dirt and sweat. His face, neck and arms are almost mahogany and shimmer with moisture.

"Um ..." T-Dog's at a loss for words. Great. Not only did he handcuff the guy's brother to the roof but he's now made him a daddy-to-be. He just shouldn't have gotten out of bed.

Andrea's jaw falls open even further, if that's even possible. "DARYL!" She shouts incredulously.

"What?" Daryl says, his eyes narrowing in confusion as he stares at Andrea and T-Dog, who are now staring at him as he comes closer. T-Dog just wishes that the ground would just swallow him up.

"I didn't think it was too far a leap!" He mutters, dashing back inside the house before Andrea or Daryl decide to kill him.

###

"What was that all about?" Daryl asks as he watches T-Dog retreat back inside the house.

Andrea gives him a wry smile. "You want to hear something funny?" When he nods, she tells him. "T-Dog just made you a daddy."

Daryl's eyebrows shoot into his hairline. "Huh?" He asks.

"He found a pregnancy stick in the yard. Assumed it was mine. And yours."

She's never, ever seen Daryl Dixon flustered, but right now, he looks like a strong gust of wind would knock him over. It's almost funny, certainly the funniest thing she's seen since this mess started.

There's a scrabbling noise then, as Daryl stumbles backwards and almost falls off the front porch steps. After a few seconds, when he's regained his balance, he manages to speak.

"He thinks you're pregnant!" He exclaims.

"And it's yours." Andrea finishes, giggling slightly. "Pretty funny, huh?"

He gives her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Guess so." He says.

The pair eye each other then, nerves and tension suddenly threaded through their interactions. Their brains seem to be whirring simultaneously. If T-Dog thought it was theirs, then he's made assumptions about their relationship, their interactions. He's perceived their relationship in a certain way. She's pretty sure that the others have, too. Carol especially. And neither are quite sure what to make of it. There isn't anything to either confirm or deny. They aren't together but there's ... there's almost a sense of proprietorship there, an unconsummated claim.

It hits Andrea with a freakish clarity then, that if things continue the way they are, where everyone they meet is either old, young, or crazy, having a romantic relationship, or even a baby with Daryl Dixon isn't a big stretch. Its not a small step, to be sure, but its not inconceivable. He's competent and smart and strong, but there's more than that, more than just pragmatism. They get on, find each other attractive, are of similar age, all the things one would look for in a partner in a sane world, never mind this insane one. In this insane world, he's a sane choice. And it wasn't that she was saying that she suddenly wanted to be with him, or have his babies. It wasn't that she was saying that he was the best of what was left (which, she supposed, he was: Dale was old enough to be her father. Rick was married, Shane was a basket case, T-Dog wasn't her type and Glenn was ... a supernerd. A sweet, adorable supernerd), just that ... her knowing him better, or at all, changed her perception of him.

She stops herself right there, planning to give herself a stern talking-to. She needs to stop thinking that right now and says as much: "Bringing a baby into this world's a really lame idea." She suddenly blurts out, desperate to say something to fill a silence that's becoming thick with frisson and tension and embarrassment and words and emotions that haven't been uttered or spoken and already she wishes that she could stuff them back in her mouth and in her brain.

Daryl snorts. "Bringin' a baby into any world's a bad idea." He says bluntly.

"Oh, I don't know." Andrea says jokingly as her brain is screaming, _why, why, WHY are you saying this?_ "I always hoped I'd have one, maybe two. I liked the idea of a little Andrea, or a little boy running around."

A dark shadow crosses Daryl's face then. "No good ever came from little Dixons runnin' around." He says, his voice blunter and harsher than she's heard him direct towards her for a long time.

"That isn't true." She says immediately. She hates the way he puts himself down in that blunt way that he has. It makes her sad that he can't see what she sees, what she knows Carol and some of the others see, too. If he could see himself the way she sees him, the way the others see how he's searched for Sophia, he'd realise that the Dixon genes aren't all bad. Not bad at all, actually.

He's talking then, his words holding a coldness and hatred and nonchalance that makes her blood chill. "Its true." He says simply. "You don't gotta lie about it. My dad spent all his life pickled in booze, barely even carin' if I was alive. Merle's in and out of juvvie, prison, or shoulda been. They aren't genes I'd wish on any kid."

He turns on his heel and walks away before Andrea can say anything, and she's left on the front porch of the old farmhouse watching his retreating back. It makes her desperately sad, the words that he's just spoken about his life, like failure and alcoholism and being a shitty human being are things that can be passed down like hair and eye colour. It saddens her to think that he's never had a father or a brother who took care of him like they should, that he's been so damaged by his experiences that he's terrified of passing it on to a child, before they even get onto the practicalities of raising a child in this world. Because the more she thinks about it, the more she realises that in this world, in this life, he'd be a good parent. He's done more for Sophia than her own father ever did, done more for all of them than they've done for him. He's loyal and he's caring and he's thoughtful, all in his own way.

She sighs again as she watches his retreating form. "You're nothing like your father." She says softly. "Or your brother. Nothing at all."

TBC ...


	12. Shout

Shout.

Post 2.05. Because, Andrea realises, someone has to. She's sick of their sympathy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Spoilers for 2.05 and _The Painted Veil_.

###

_I thought he was a walker. I thought he was a walker. I thought he was a walker. _

_You shot Daryl. You shot Daryl. You shot Daryl. _

_It didn't look like him. It didn't look like him. It didn't look like him. _

_You almost killed him. You almost killed him. You almost killed him. _

The thoughts and rationalisations churn around in Andrea's brain as she sits on the porch steps to the Green house, listening to the voices churn and swirl around her. Another member of their crew bedridden because of someone else's itchy trigger finger. She wonders if the penance for shooting members of her new family is bared teeth and shredded flesh. It was for Otis. Certainly she deserves no better.

She shot Daryl. Oh God, she shot him. If her aim had been just slightly off ... he would be dead. He'd be gone and the country boy with the shoulder to cry on and the sad song and the dusty pickup truck that smelled like crossbow lubricant would be no more. She'd truly, truly be alone. It would be like losing Amy all over again but worse, because there'd be no Daryl to make her live. There'd be no-one to not talk to and no-one to stare at and no mutual awareness realised at the same time and _oh God she shot Daryl_.

She dry heaves over the front porch steps.

There's movement behind her: dirty, heavy boots and the clang of the front porch door. Rick Grimes drops down next to her, his expression unreadable. He looks wan and tired and awful and she hates that he's left his sick son's bedside to come here to be with her. All the same, she's glad it's him and not Dale with his well-meaning but excruciating sympathy and Shane with his increasingly wild eyes.

Rick doesn't say anything, just sits there, watching her, waiting for her to talk. She can feel her own self-reproach in her gaze when she looks at him. "How is he?" She mumbles.

"He's okay." He says at length. "Bullet grazed his temple. Herschel's more worried about the crossbow wound. He's upstairs if you want to see him."

She shakes her head frantically. What would she say? 'Sorry for almost killing you?' 'I feel like crap?'

_You almost killed him_. She dry heaves some more, willing something, _anything_ to come out of her.

"I thought he was a walker." She says as she wipes at her mouth, her gaze moving beyond Rick's too-understanding face and to the old barn in the distance. It's tucked away from the house, she's never been up there, no one has to her knowledge. Maybe she should have done target practice there instead. No-one would care if she hit the barn.

"I know." Rick's voice sounds distant in her ears even though he's sat right next to her.

"He came out of the woods, the way he was moving, stumbling ... he looked like a walker." Andrea can her hear own rationalisations, justifications and excuses in her head. She can hear Rick say it's okay, that Daryl's fine, that it's not her fault, that she was protecting the group, that he wants to see her.

None of it matters. She carries on talking. "The light-" She says, gesturing with her hand to her face, remembering the shafts of sunlight she saw when she looked through the rifle scope. "It blotted out his face. I couldn't see who it was. I thought he was a walker."

"Andrea: I know. Daryl knows. He's not mad. Well ... he's pissed that he's been shot but he's okay." Rick's quiet for a minute until he looks at her again. "You pulled the trigger and you meant it, Andrea." He says. "You were protecting us. It's better than needing to protect us and freezing at the critical moment."

Andrea shakes her head. He's right in a way, but that's not all of it. "I'm sick of washing laundry." She blurts out.

Rick's brow twitches at that. Clearly he's not getting it, and why would he? He isn't the one who's doing endless hours of washing and drying and hanging clothes and cooking. He's got no idea what it's like to see other people go off and hunt and make runs to pharmacies and do proactive things that don't involve washing detergent. He couldn't even sit at his sick son's bedside without wanting to go off and slay the proverbial dragon. He doesn't get it.

But why would he? He's the one giving pint after pint of blood for his desperately sick son. Why is she bitching about laundry to him?

Because he's their leader and she's fed up of the division of labour in the camp.

She wanted a gun. She wanted to patrol, to shoot, to do something of value. She wanted protect the group from walkers, not protect them from having no clean laundry.

She shot Daryl.

"Do you have any idea what it's like to be relegated to a washer-woman?" She says, when she realises that Rick really isn't getting her half-assed explanation – her explanation for shooting Daryl was that she was sick of washing laundry? Is she serious?

Daryl does his own laundry.

She feels a tear slip down her cheek at that. Daryl had been the only one who had refused to let the women wash his clothes. "Ain't no-one touchin' my stuff but me." He had said firmly as he pushed Carol's hands away. Carol had deduced that he was embarrassed, that he'd never had someone do that for him, that he didn't give a rats' ass about laundry and certainly wasn't about to palm something he had sweat and bled on to someone else to wash. It wasn't his way. She was probably right.

She carries on. "Do you have any idea what it's like to want to protect this camp and feel like you aren't being listened to?" When Rick doesn't answer she continues. "I don't have a missing or sick child to worry about, and I know how to shoot. I wanted to protect the camp. And I shot Daryl."

Rick sits with her until the sun sets. He doesn't have anything to say to her.

Its Carol who approaches her next, two plates of chocolate cake wedged between them as a culinary emissary. "Thought you might want to take Daryl some dessert." She says kindly, although it's not really phrased as a suggestion.

Her feet feel heavy and slow on the stairs as she ascends to the first floor, the plates in her hands. She has no idea how he's going to react to her presence. Is he going to yell at her? Berate her? Or treat her with the same nauseatingly understanding sympathy that everyone else has offered? She'd almost prefer that he yell at her, that someone show something other than sympathy that's so understanding and non-judgmental that it makes her want to scream. SHE ALMOST KILLED DARYL! She almost killed the most valuable member of their group (which he is, even if it's just her opinion) and she doesn't get a word of anger of chastisement? What's up with that?

He's either asleep or ignoring her when she toes open the door, spilling light into the darkened room. He's wrapped in a single white sheet, a bandage on his head and his side. He doesn't stir when she comes into the room, or when she sits on the chair next to the bed, watching him sleep. He looks pale and tired and she hates herself that little bit more.

She sets the plates down and sits for a few minutes, watching him. She could have killed him. People say that all the time when they don't really mean it, but she does: she literally could have killed him. They would have lost their hunter, their tracker, their best fighter; all because she was fed up of washing pants and shirts and needed to prove herself, but to whom? To herself? To the others? She takes a voracious bite out of her cake, not that she's hungry but because it's something to do other than sit and wait for him to wake up.

She dozes in the chair for a while, before eating her and Daryl's desserts. Great. Now as well as shooting him, she's eaten his Betty Crocker boxed cake. She really is a shitty excuse for a human being.

When it becomes obvious that he isn't going to wake up soon, she reaches in her bag and withdraws _The Painted Veil_. She hasn't finished it yet. It had such hopeful beginnings and now she really wants to see Kitty and Walter get their happy ending. Kitty's a bit of an idiot, but she's trying and Walter's stubborn and won't talk to her. Not that she deserves it, but he wants them to work it out, because sometimes, the greatest distance really is between two people and she needs them to talk to each other. She needs _someone_ here to get a happy ending.

She always had 'lived' literature a little too literally. It's why she'd majored in law rather than English. After reading _Jane Eyre_ she really began to worry that she'd end her days as Mrs. Rochester, locked away in the tower.

After Walter dies, she stops reading, throws the book across the room and lets the tears fall.

###

When she wakes up she's lying on the bed next to him and he's watching her with half-asleep eyes. "You're awake." She says softly.

"You noticed." His voice is thick and hoarse, like he needs a drink of water, which she duly fetches for him. "Carol mentioned something about cake." He says hopefully, frowning when he sees the two empty plates still smeared with frosting.

"I'll get you another slice." Andrea promises. She'll bring him the whole cake if it will make him stop looking at her the way he's looking now. "Daryl, I'm so sorry." She pleads. "I ... I thought you were a walker. I took the shot and I was stupid."

"You weren't stupid." He says, wincing as he sits up in bed.

She moves to help him and the sheet slips down his chest, exposing the horrible scars that cover his chest. They look like burns or scratches and they're raised and ugly and he's obviously embarrassed about them because he roughly pushes her hands away and tugs the sheet a little higher, covering himself and holding her wrists so she can't look anymore. Their eyes collide somewhere in the middle and she almost flinches when she sees the raw emotion there.

"You were protecting the group." He says softly, immediately loosening his grip on her wrists when he sees her squirming under his strong hold. "We're good."

"Are we?" Andrea asks, moving off the bed and moving to the window. More sympathy? Seriously? More understanding? "Are we really? I shot you and all you can say to me is, 'we're good.'?"

He frowns. "What do you want me to say?" He asks, genuinely bewildered. "You want me to yell at ya, scream at ya?"

"YES!" She exclaims. Finally, he's getting it. "You, of all people should be yelling! You used to spend all your time in camp yelling about something, it didn't even have to be anything big and you'd bitch about it! I shot you and I ate your cake and you won't yell and no-one is yelling and I need someone to yell at me because _someone_ has to!"

He seems to consider this for a moment before awkwardly moving out of bed and hobbling towards her, his mouth set in a firm, resolute line. Only when he's next to her does he stop and exhale a long, deep breath before speaking.

And then he yells.

"You stupid asshole!" He shouts at her, his breath warm on her face. He looks terrifying and she really hopes that it's an act to appease her. "You fucking shot me! What were you thinking? Didn't you look in the scope and see it was me! I know you don't give a rats' ass about living but some of us want to stick around for a while so next time you decide to prove yourself and practice your sharpshooting skills, do us all a favour: don't. Leave a note, draw a picture, write some angsty poetry. JUST DON'T SHOOT ME!"

Andrea closes her eyes against his tirade, feeling tears of relief spill and slip down her cheeks. _Finally_. Finally, someone has told her what she needs to be told: that while she was protecting the group, she was stupid. She was reckless. She could have killed him. And she needs to snap out of it.

She opens her eyes when she feels Daryl's rough thumb pad on her cheeks, pushing away her tears. "This is why I didn't want to shout." He mumbles, wincing through the pain his outburst has probably caused him. "'cos I think you're beatin' yourself up enough about it without me yellin'. Plus ... I ain't mad, not really. You did what you thought was right. Just don't ever do it again. Unless I really am a walker and then just put one between my eyes."

His hand lingers on her face just a split second longer than it should, his eyes boring into hers. He opens his mouth to say something more, maybe to acknowledge that all this mutual looking and truck riding actually means something to him, but there's footsteps outside the door and Daryl jerks his hand away as though it's on fire.

Shane's on the front porch when Andrea finally comes outside. "Think it's about time we worked on your marksmanship." He says as he hears her footfalls.

"Sounds good." She croaks.

"Can't have you missin' targets."

It hits Andrea then that the pregnancy kit might well be Lori and Shane's. "Right." She says numbly.

He glances in her direction but doesn't actually look at her. "You and Dixon okay?" He asks.

_Define okay_. "I guess." She says.

"Good. We'll start tomorrow."

TBC.

I might have to write several for 2.06. Or I might have to wash my eyes with bleach. I haven't decided yet ...


	13. Assertive

Assertive.

Okay. Right. Hum. Well. So this is it, the one you've been waiting for, however reluctantly: the tag for 2.06. I've cowardly put off writing Andrea's POV for the next one because frankly, even these missing scenes aside, I have no idea WHAT she was thinking. I can only conclude that she wasn't thinking, at all. Plus ... I know that I tend to write Andrea a lot. Probably because I find it easier to get into Andrea's head than Daryl's. Maybe its gender affinity. But I need to write more Daryl. So here we go.

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own _The Walking Dead_. You seriously think I would have let 2.06 go down the way it did if I was in charge?

###

"You aren't going to get very far standing here, watching and brooding." Carol says bluntly as she takes a freshly-washed shirt from Daryl's arms and pegs it to the makeshift washing line that bisects the camp. "You shouldn't be standing at all." She adds.

"So ya said." Daryl retorts, his gaze still on the target practice that's going on in the fields beyond the house, towards the barn.

If he had a gun or his crossbow, Shane would be dead.

"She's holding that pistol wrong." He grumbles, barely noticing that Carol has taken more clothes from his arms and is pegging them on the line. "She keeps that up she'll dislocate her damned shoulder."

He doesn't need to elaborate on the 'she'. Carol is apparently very observant.

She hadn't wanted him to help her with the laundry. She had wanted him to stay in the tent and read that shitty book that Andrea had given him, but there was no way Daryl was going to stay in that tent and read when he could be outside in the fresh air and away from all the chatter that was flying around camp: couldn't people keep their mouths shut? When did he suddenly become part of a crappy daytime TV soap? Was it while he was passed out?

So he had gotten up, ignored the pain that's coursing through his side, and has practically forced Carol to let him help her with the laundry.

Not that he's actually helping. He's just holding the clothes. Carol's pegging them on the line.

"Maybe you should go and help her." Carol suggests, giving him a pointed look.

Daryl's cheeks colour. Since when had he become that obvious? He shrugs. "She ain't gonna want my help."

Carol actually laughs in his face at that, although there's little malice or mockery there. If anything, she's genuinely perturbed. "Daryl, if you think that then you really are the dumb hick that everyone used to think you were." She says bluntly.

"Thanks." Daryl mutters.

He grinds his teeth as he watches Shane lean over to help adjust Andrea's stance. Their gait is relaxed, perhaps even flirtatious. It's certainly not purely teacher-student. And it's driving him crazy.

He needs Merle here, that's what he needs. He didn't think he'd ever say it (is it wrong to miss his absent brother less and less with each passing day? He figures that since Merle was never that good a brother to begin with, it's okay), but he needs his big brother here to point out the spectacle of the situation. Merle'd kick his ass eight ways from sundown if he caught his kid brother standing in front of a washing line like a jackass watching some near-insane lawman flirt with his girl.

_Woah_. Where did that come from?

They aren't together. Not even close. They haven't even kissed. Until last night, he'd barely even touched her. _They aren't together_.

Doesn't mean he hasn't thought about it. Of course he has; he's a flesh and blood man and aside from the fact that she's the only unmarried woman who's his age and not a lunatic (Glenn was right: Lori is acting really weird recently, even accounting for the fact that her son was operated on by a veterinarian and he almost died), he likes her, as a person. Even if she did try to kill him.

He didn't like her at first, thought she was some uppity city chick with a chip on her shoulder and a mouthy attitude, but she isn't. And now they're bound together, him and her, bound by their shared experiences and their mutual loss and their utter inability to let their guard down. They're bound by loneliness and the two seats of his battered truck and the fact that she's seen his scars and wants to touch them and he _just can't let her._

Waking up on a battered couch with her head on his chest wasn't so bad, either.

Carol turns around long enough to watch Shane gently pat Andrea on the shoulder when she hits the target with one shot. "She's good." She says.

"Yeah." Daryl retorts shortly. "She is."

Carol gives him a mollifying look. "It's okay if you like Andrea, Daryl." She says softly.

"I don't 'like' Andrea." He clarifies/lies.

"Okay." Carol says simply.

"I don't."

"Sure."

"I don't!"

"I'm agreeing with you!" She says, laughing as she takes the final shirt out of his hands and hangs it on the line.

"No, you ain't." Daryl says irritably before giving Carol an apologetic look. He shouldn't be taking this out on her. Even if she is unceremoniously mocking him.

"Daryl, if you say there's nothing between you and Andrea, then I believe you." Carol tongues her cheek as she reaches for the last peg, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. "But if that's the case, you might not want to cosy up together on the couch."

Daryl's got nothing to say to that, which isn't a problem because Carol, it would seem, is content to talk enough for both of them.

"Y'know, if it makes you feel better, she likes you too." She says after a while.

"That so." Daryl says. He should probably just up and leave this conversation right now, since it's become more an exercise in mortification than anything else. If it was anyone else in the camp, he'd walk off, bark some derisive, angry comment at them and tell them to mind their own business. But there's something about Carol that makes him stay. Her no-good, deadbeat husband's dead, her daughter's missing ... she wants someone to talk to, someone to mother, someone to advise.

He's never had that.

Merle would definitely kick his ass if he were here.

But he isn't.

Carol continues. "That is so." She says authoritatively. "She does. She just needs a little push."

"A little push, huh?" Daryl says.

###

Against his better judgement, Daryl thinks about Carol's words while Andrea and Shane are out searching for Sophia. The older woman's made him think not just about what Daryl and Andrea think and feel about each other, but what others think about them, too. Didn't T-Dog think that their relationship had progressed to the point where Andrea might actually be the owner of that pregnancy test? What does that tell him about other's perceptions of their relationship? Has this passed him by and he's missed it? Shouldn't he be able to notice when a woman's interested in him? Is he really that unobservant of human behaviour that he's completely failed to notice that he's interested in a woman, and she's reciprocated? He's a hunter, a tracker: he's able to track deer for miles and noticed the way the leaves fall, the way the forest smells, but it takes a rogue pregnancy kit and a bullet wound to the head to make him realise that a chick's into him?

He knows that's not true, not really. He knows that they've been getting closer recently, since the CDC when he let her cry on his shoulder and danced her to a slow country song and danced around the other with their 'I have never been lonely.' Something could have happened that night if there had been slightly more alcohol and slightly fewer inhibitions. She rides in his truck pretty much all the time now, even drove it when he drove Merle's bike to the farm. He knew when he asked her not to leave that he was admitting that he felt something for her, even if he didn't explicitly say it. He knows that they look at each other now, look at each other differently to how they used to. There's a new layer there. He's more aware of her now, but he's also more aware of the fact that she's aware of him, too.

He's still musing when they return in that hideous green car. Of all the cars in Georgia and he chooses a pale green Honda? Shane's even more of an asshole than he thought.

Carol's words come back to him when he sees Andrea step out of the car: _she just needs a little push. _

Maybe he needs a push, too.

He finds her alone a little later; she's in the stables cleaning the horses. There's a part of him that's a little surprised, actually. It sounds arrogant on his part but he assumed that she'd come and see him, check on how he is, at least. She did shoot him after all, and this new nonchalance is at complete odds with their exchange last night where she once again ended up falling asleep next to him.

"Hey." He says as he toes open the stable door, letting the sunlight drift into the rooms. It smells like horses and sweat and feed and tension fills the air like a thick fog of unspoken words and unacknowledged emotions.

"Hey." She says, not turning around from the horse that she's grooming. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay." He says. His side still hurts like hell but he's more mobile now and he's using it to his advantage.

He takes a couple of steps closer to her, leaving against one of the stable half-doors to stroke the horse that gently butts its head against his left shoulder. Her hands momentarily still on the horse that she's grooming, clearly hearing and sensing movement behind her, but she doesn't turn around.

"You have any luck in the 'burbs?" He asks.

She shakes her head. "Just walkers." She says after awhile, her voice sounding strangled and slightly hoarse.

"She's out there." Daryl says, his brow furrowing. Something's wrong, that much is certain. He isn't sure what's happened, not exactly. All he knows is that Andrea's different. _They're_ different. It's like he's suddenly started re-watching his favourite TV show but he's come in right after a fundamentally important episode and is only just beginning to realise that the characters and the plot have moved on from when he last saw them.

Exhaling slowly and deeply, he takes a step forward, grips her shoulders and gently turns her around to face him. There's nowhere for her to go except through the horse behind her. Taking her chin, he gently tilts her face upwards until her eyes make contact with his.

"Thought ya knew by now I don' bite." He whispers, gently tucking a thick strand of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering on her face. It's been a long, _long_ time since he did this and he doesn't know who's more skittish: him, Andrea or the horse.

"Daryl-" Andrea says, her voice breathy and shaky as she closes her eyes and leans into his touch.

"Shhhh." He silences her, swallowing thickly. "I just ... I'm a little rusty." He admits bashfully. He can't believe he admitted that. _Smooth, Dixon, real smooth_. But its the truth: it has been awhile since he's been this way with a woman. Not intimate, but tender. Close. The women he knew were nothing like Andrea. They were younger, harder, their features and emotions more brittle. Their aspirations and dreams had been ground down early, etching regrets onto their face like hard lines. Andrea's not there yet. She's still soft and warm and delicate in a resolute, robust way.

When her hand slides up to take his hand that's nestling at her cheek, he takes his chance. Dipping his head, he gently presses his lips to hers.

They're soft and warm and pliant under his ministrations and yield almost immediately and now he's here, kissing her, his other hand gripping her waist through the thin fabric of her t-shirt, Daryl can't believe they haven't done this before, not when it makes his blood boil and rush and charge in his veins and now he's had a taste of her he never, ever wants to stop.

Andrea's another matter.

When his tongue slips across her lips and into her mouth she wrenches her mouth away with what sounds like a sob.

"I'm sorry, I can't!" She says with what was definitely a sob, pushing him away as though he weighs nothing at all. "Not now, like this!" Putting a hand to her mouth she pushes past him, out of the stables and is gone before he can say or do anything.

###

Dinner is stilted and awful, to say the least. Its going to be one of their last dinners here and no-one has quite decided whether or not they're pleased about it. But no-one is talking, and everyone is staring. Glenn stares at Lori, Maggie and Rick. Carol stares at Daryl and Andrea. Dale stares at Lori, Shane and Andrea. Lori stares at Rick, Shane and Glenn. Maggie stares at Glenn and Lori. Rick stares at Lori and Shane. Shane stares at Andrea, Lori and Rick. Daryl can feel his eyes wander to Andrea more than he would like, his mouth and ego still bruised from their encounter in the stables. Andrea stares at her plate. Its so tangled he's astounded they haven't all garrotted themselves on the stares and baggage and knowledge that fills the table, the house and probably the county.

Daryl's not sure when he realises what's happened.

Maybe it's the lazy way Shane casts his gaze over Andrea as she eats. Its casually lustful, minus the hunger that Daryl knows is in his own gaze when he looks at the blonde woman now.

Maybe it's the way Andrea doesn't look at anyone during the entire dinner.

Maybe it's the subtle bite mark that's visible on Andrea's neck when her shirt shifts.

In the end, it's none of that.

It's the smirk that Shane gives Daryl when he sees him watching Andrea. It's knowing. It's wise. It's satisfied.

It's gloating.

Daryl throws down his fork and pushes back his chair with such force that the chair topples over. He can feel the rage building in his blood. He either leaves now or he's going to explode or throw up in the dining room. He can feel the familiar, comforting rage push through his veins, shattering what control he's managed to build since Merle left. He feels like laughing, in a way. He's spent so long trying not to get angry at things that just don't matter than now something comes along where for the first time he feels like it does matter, he can't even find his voice. He can't find the right decibel level at which to yell.

Everyone except Andrea and Shane jump when he stands up and stalks out of the dining room, but no-one follows him. No-one dares.

He's in the stables cleaning his crossbow when there's footsteps outside. For a second he traitorously thinks it's going to be Andrea offering some kind of explanation, but when Dale's familiar form fills the open door, he wishes he could say he wasn't disappointed.

"You okay?" Dale says.

Daryl fights the urge to put his head in his hands: is nothing sacred anymore?

"Beat it, Dale." He says, with more force than he had intended. "I ain't feelin' particularly sociable."

Dale sighs and sets his rifle down on the ground, next to Daryl's crossbow. "Andrea's crying in the RV." He says softly. When Daryl doesn't even register that he's spoken, he ploughs on. "You got anything to say about that?"

"It's a free country." Daryl says gruffly. He doesn't want to think about Andrea right now. "She's free to do whatever she wants." Or whoever she wants.

Its true: they aren't together, aren't tied together in any formal way, not that that really counts for all that much anymore. But ... she hasn't technically done anything wrong.

It doesn't make him feel any less shit.

It was easier when it was just him and Merle.

Dale gives him a sympathetic look before exhaling. "Daryl ... Lori's pregnant." He says, so quietly Daryl thinks that he imagined it. He keeps his mouth shut though, waiting for Dale to make his point which he does: "Lori says that it's Rick's." It's obvious to anyone that he no more believes the baby is Rick's than he believes Andrea's not crying over Daryl in the RV.

"Her business." Daryl says. From now on, he's keeping his nose out of everyone's business. He can feel Dale's eyes on him and when he looks up, the older man is giving him a look which indicates that he really, _really_ isn't done. "Spit it out." He says wearily. "I ain't in the mood for games, Dale."

"We have a problem." Dale says seriously, his face devoid of any emotion whatsoever. "A real, serious problem."

"That so, huh?" Daryl retorts.

Dale gives him an even look. "I know what happened with Otis, at the health centre." He says.

_That's_ got Daryl's attention.

He's thought about it a little. It's a weird situation: he's an outsider, never met Otis, never had anything to do with him. He only went to the funeral because he didn't have a whole lot of options. Granted, Shane's story had a few holes in it but no more than the average narrative of a person set upon by walkers. When there's a herd of them and they're riled up and bullets are flying and you're prepared to do anything to escape ... it can cloud your memory of what can happen. He knows that.

But he's also seen Shane's behaviour since he came back from that respirator run.

They've all been skating on thin ice since everything happened but Shane's been closer to the edge than most. Daryl had originally thought that it was because Rick came back and slotted into the space that Shane had tried to fill. But now ... the way Dale's looking at him and the darkness he hears in his voice suggests something different, suggests that Daryl might want to take notice of what he's saying in a way that's got everything and nothing to do with Shane and Andrea having sex this past afternoon.

He returns to Dale's question. "Ya do, huh?" He says carefully.

Dale nods. "We have a serious problem here." He says, before amending, "Well, we have two serious problems, actually."

Daryl rolls his eyes and puts his head in his hands. "Y'already told me the first." He says bluntly. "What's the second?"

Dale grips the rifle so hard that his knuckles turn white. "Herschel's barn's full of walkers."

TBC ...

Gonna do Andrea's POV next!


	14. Cleanse

Cleanse

Okay, so ... this is the other one y'all have been waiting for: Andrea's pov after 2.06. Hope it doesn't disappoint! I'm a little worried that I've made Andrea really angsty or excessively whiny: whichever way you look at it, her and Daryl aren't together, not really. She doesn't have to justify her behaviour to him. But anyway. I might re-edit this after a while if I don't like it but as it stands now, its going up.

Current important stats, as of Saturday evening:

Number of reviewers who think that Daryl or Andrea needs to punch Shane in the face: 3.

Number of Shane/Andrea fics: 2

Number of Daryl/Andrea fics: 34.

Think we're sensing a pattern, here?

I also want to say a big THANK YOU to all you lovely reviewers. I've been really overwhelmed by the response this fic has had. I didn't expect it to get the level of positive reviews it has, I really just started writing it for fun without thought for where it was going and I'm elated that people enjoy it. I know that I have a core cluster of reviewers who have read this fic from the very first post right through to now and have diligently responded to every chapter, and it's wonderful to know that there are people out there who will take the time out of their busy lives to comment on my work. So thanks: you guys are the best.

I just saw a preview for episode 7. Looks like there might be a Daryl/Carol moment. I just can't see it, I'm sorry. I feel bad admitting it as I think Carol's a quasi-decent character but I can no more see them than I can see Shane and Andrea. Maybe I should just stop 'shipping couples because every time I do, they never work out. I think I might be cursed. And I think this might well go AU ...

Disclaimer: None of its mine, alas.

###

They drive back to the farm in silence.

Shane taps his fingers on the steering wheel and plays around with the car radio.

Andrea bites her nail, tries to tune out the radio static and fantasises about the many, _many_ ways she's going to scrub her body clean when she gets back to the farm.

She's seriously considering burning her panties even though they're one of only three pairs that she has.

She just slept with Shane.

Correction: she just had sex with Shane in the drivers' seat of a green Honda (a Honda? Really?). The last man she slept with was Daryl.

Daryl.

_Oh God_.

She puts her hand to her mouth as she dry heaves, feeling bile and vomit burn the back of her throat. Suddenly, she really _doesn't_ want to go back to the camp.

Despite the fact that she hasn't seen the inside of a courtroom in weeks and she's trying to stop defining everyone by their profession (or lack thereof), she can feel her lawyer's brain kicking into gear, offering up a panoply of perfectly reasonable explanations and justifications for their behaviour. It's not lost on her that in a court of law, reasonable doubt is enough to acquit you of murder yet when she thinks about what's happened with her and Shane and what's happening and not happening between her and Daryl, she's overwhelmed with guilt and disgust and remorse even though she knows that she doesn't have any reason to feel guilty, not really. She and Shane are two single, consenting adults. Shane's not with Lori and she's not with Daryl. She doesn't have to justify herself to him. Still, it's impossible to get out of thinking like a lawyer, so she lets her brain indulge its very human rationalisations.

Its a well-known fact that when faced with a life-or-death situation, people want to experience life. They want to know what it is to live. Its why so many people go skydiving, bungee jumping, whatever. But they also want to have sex. Its a survival thing. As well as experiencing life, people want to create life, feel another living, breathing human being beneath their fingertips. In the context of the time, their actions were understandable. They'd just shared a life-or-death experience and were high on adrenaline. They wanted to feel alive, they wanted to make that invincible feeling last, wanted to cocoon themselves away from reality, from the fact that they'd have to go back to the farm and tell Carol that Sophia was still missing.

There's also a level of shared understanding, too. They're both trying to outrun their feelings, in some way. Andrea knows that Shane's still in love with Lori, knows that what happened in the car was about the fact that he's in love with Lori and he can't have her because she's married to his best friend.

But what about her? Who's she trying to outrun? Amy? The fact that until recently she wanted to die? Or Daryl, with whom she's developed a strange relationship which she doesn't want to think about right now because if she does then she'll probably throw up.

On a basic level, they clearly both wanted to get laid.

Andrea closes her eyes as the farmhouse comes into view. She doesn't want to relive the sex, but her brain's not cooperating because all other things considered, it's been a long time since she's had sex. She's heard stories from the other survivors when they were living at the quarry, awful stories about the things that had been done to women since the world imploded. It's made her cautious.

So why did she throw all that into the wind for Shane, _Shane_, of all people? He's not a bad guy to be sure, even if he is slowly beginning to go a little nuts but that's hardly fair or unique among their party: they're _all_ starting to go a little nuts, starting to do crazy things. Like having sex in green Hondas after shooting a cul-de-sac full of walkers. She should have just saved the ammo for when they really needed it.

She isn't even sure if she's attracted to him. She must have been on some level or she would never have done it but ... She kept her eyes closed the whole time. Or buried in the crook of his neck.

They hit a rocky patch on the road and Andrea's sure that the beef jerky she ate at lunch is going to make a return journey.

She doesn't think about the fact that when she opened her eyes she saw dirty blonde hair instead of closely-cropped black hair, or blue eyes rather than brown gazing back at her. She doesn't think about the fact that he smelled wrong and felt wrong and everything about it was _wrong_. If it had been under different circumstances, the sex itself wouldn't actually have been too bad. She'd definitely had worse in the past, Shane really knew what he was doing and the Honda was surprisingly roomy, but the circumstances were what they were and now she just feels dirty in a way that's got nothing to do with the sweat trickling between her breasts or the grime and dust that now seems endemic to her new life.

The others are on them and Andrea's out of the car as soon as Shane kills the engine, their voices a congeries of questions, pleas and opinions. She can't remember what she says or how she responds but soon she's alone, heading towards the farmhouse, away from the RV and the camp and the blue eyes that she can feel on the back of her head. She should go and see how Daryl's doing. She should. But she can't, not now, not like this when she feels dirty and she knows that what she's done is written all over her face like a scarlet letter.

The water's hot but not hot enough and when the water and the steam hits her skin it heightens all the smells that cling to her body: dirt, gunpowder along with two types of sweat, saliva and other fluids that she doesn't want to think about. By the time she's done, her skin's pink and scrubbed clean both inside and out and she feels a little more sure of herself.

She's less sure about Daryl.

What can she say to him? There's no way she can keep it secret; her face would give it away and there's a bite mark on her shoulder. Plus ... she wants to tell him. She wants him to know. She just doesn't know how to tell him. She isn't sure if she even should be telling him: why should she? They aren't together, she doesn't owe him anything (even if he did save her life and talked her into staying when she was considering leaving and held her when she cried about her sister), they've barely touched the other and they've never kissed. But she's deluding herself if she says that there isn't something there, which in some ways, she feels is part of the problem.

If she were to sleep with Daryl, what would it mean? What would they both want it to mean? One thing she can definitively say about Shane is that what they shared this afternoon means equally little to both of them. It was tension release – poorly-judged tension release, granted – but release all the same. They don't much like each other, barely tolerate each other except when they're talking about weapons or practising. She's certainly not about to start riding in his truck or telling him about Amy or sleeping next to him after she's shot him or telling him about the books that she's reading.

Maybe that's why she did it: she knows it meant little to Shane and it could well mean so much more if it had been Daryl. For both of them.

She visibly shrinks when she looks at herself in the bathroom mirror and when she thinks about how Daryl will look at her, she feels tears well at her eyes, tears that spill when she thinks about what it could have been like with Daryl.

At least she would have kept her eyes open.

She thinks its at that point that she realises she wishes it had been Daryl.

_Oh God, she slept with Shane_.

She spends the rest of the afternoon avoiding him, mucking out the stables. She knows she's being unfair to him, avoiding him like this, especially when it's so completely at odds with their previous interactions. So she grooms the horse that threw Daryl and forces herself to think of other things.

Which of course means that she thinks of nothing else.

She's so engrossed in her task that she doesn't hear movement until he's almost on her. She's so stupid: what if it was a walker? But then she realises that she almost wishes it was a walker when she hears Daryl's voice.

"Hey." He says as he toes open the stable door, letting the sunlight drift into the stable and Andrea can feel the heat on the back of her neck when the warmth fills the room.

"Hey." She says, not turning around from the horse that she's grooming. She's almost afraid to face him, afraid in a way she's never been before. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay." He says. Behind her she can hear his footsteps come closer; he's moving softly and slowly, probably to minimise the pain in his side. "You have any luck in the 'burbs?" He asks after a few seconds' silence.

She shakes her head, her hands trembling so much she almost drops the grooming brush. "Just walkers." She says after awhile, her voice sounding strangled and slightly hoarse. He's probably picked up on her inflections, can tell that there's something wrong.

"She's out there." Daryl says softly. She wished that she had his confidence.

There's movement behind her then and she visibly jumps when he grips her shoulders and gently turns her around to face him. He's standing right in front of her, and there's nowhere for her to go except through the horse behind her. She's trapped.

Taking her chin, he gently tilts her face upwards until her eyes make contact with his. His eyes are gentle and searching but confused too: he knows that she's avoiding him and she doesn't know why.

"Thought ya knew by now I don' bite." He whispers, gently tucking a thick strand of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering on her face. There's a slight tremor there and she can tell with awful, awful clarity that he's chosen this moment, this awful moment to make the leap between what they are now and what they could be. And he's nervous about it, and as much as she knows she hasn't done anything wrong, she can't help but feel awful about it.

"Daryl-" Andrea says, her voice breathy and shaky as she closes her eyes and leans into his touch.

It should have been him, not Shane.

"Shhhh." He silences her, swallowing thickly. "I just ... I'm a little rusty." He admits bashfully and she wants to weep at the naked emotion in his eyes. It's like he's completely naked in front of her and she's truly seeing him, and when her hand slides up to take his hand that's nestling at her cheek, he dips his head and gently presses his lips to hers.

His lips are soft, much softer than she'd expected. Shane's technique had been fine but there was no sensuality there, no passion except that stoked by gratitude for being alive. With Daryl ... its like they've finally taken a step over the precipice they've been loitering on since that day in the CDC, when she was the sad girl with the dead sister and he was the country boy with a strong shoulder. Its unsure and rough all at the same time and it sends shivers and flickers of electricity down her spine.

Which is precisely why she can't do this, not now.

She gasps when his hands shift slightly, gripping her hard at the hips through the thin fabric of her t-shirt, his hands holding her so hard she's sure he'll leave bruises there. His stubble's making short work of the skin on her face and her gasp turns into a moan and a sob when his tongue slips across her lips and into her mouth.

"I'm sorry, I can't!" She says, bringing her arms up and pushing him away. She can feel the hurt and confusion in his eyes, searing through the top of her head. His hands linger on hers, sliding up her forearms to try to pull her back to him, to get her to look at him but she won't. "Not now, like this!" Putting a hand to her mouth she pushes past him, out of the stables and is gone before he can say or do anything.

###

Dinner is stilted and awful, to say the least. No-one is talking, and everyone is staring at each other except for Andrea, who keeps her gaze on her dinner and tries not to wilt under Daryl's intense, increasingly frustrated gaze. Eventually, he throws his cutlery onto his half-eaten dinner and pushes back his chair with such force that it topples over, making everyone jump and killing the conversations stone dead. Its then that she lifts her gaze up to his and finds that he's torn between looking at her and looking at Shane's satisfied, almost gloating stare. She opens her mouth to say something to him but he's gone before she can get the words out. She doesn't follow him.

"Are you okay?" Carol asks some time later as she inches into the RV's living room, where Andrea's curled up on the couch pretending to read a book.

"I'm fine." Andrea says, frantically wiping at her eyes. She doesn't want anyone, least of all Carol to see that she's been crying. Her problems are nothing compared to Carol's.

"Doesn't sound that way." Carol gives her a sympathetic smile. "You wanna talk about it?"

Andrea shakes her head. "Nah, I'm good." She says, wishing that she sounded halfways sincere.

Carol's not buying it. "This about what happened at dinner tonight?"

"I guess."

"You guys have a fight?" Clearly T-Dog's not the only one who's perceived her and Daryl's relationship in a certain way.

"Not exactly." They'd have to actually speak in order to fight. Although they seem to manage talking without their mouths so fighting is probably the next logical step in their relationship. When it becomes clear that Carol isn't budging, she wipes away more tears and talks, her voice slipping into clinical lawyer-talk before she can stop herself. "I just ... I acted kinda rashly today and I regret it because I've hurt him and I don't know how to fix it."

Carol seems to digest this before speaking. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Shane, would it?"

Andrea's cheeks colour scarlet. "Is nothing private around here?" She says.

Carol doesn't have an answer for her. Instead she shrugs and says, "Dale's too scared to come in, in case you cry some more."

Despite herself, Andrea laughs. "No, I'm fine." She insists, even though she doesn't feel it. She picks at a thread on her jeans, her gaze on her clothes. "I ... I feel guilty about what happened today." She says softly. "There's a part of me that knows that it's irrational, that there's no ... understanding there, or whatever. But ..."

"You like Daryl." Carol finishes kindly.

Andrea nods, relief escaping her body as she verbalises the words. "I just ... I don't think it really hit me until I saw him standing there today, in the stables and at dinner." She sniffs. "His armour was off and I saw him, and he saw me, and ..." She puts her head in her hands. She's better than this, stronger than this. But she wants to cleanse herself mentally as well as physically. "Shane and I ... it didn't mean anything." She says softly. "Which is what I wanted. Or I think I did, at the time."

"And you think that you and Daryl ... would mean something?" Carol says.

"Yes." Andrea says simply. It's a three-letter word but one that sounds so much bigger when spoken out loud.

###

Sometime later, Andrea's asleep when she feels a large, warm hand over her mouth, muffling the scream that courses out of her mouth. She thrashes and fights with her captor for several minutes until realisation dawns.

Daryl's in her tent.

"Shane killed Otis and Herschel's got a barn full of walkers." He says, his voice urgent and quiet, his blue eyes boring into hers. "I need ya to get dressed and come to the RV, _now_. Can ya do that and keep it quiet?"

She nods, going limp in his arms as relief floods through her. His hand doesn't move from her mouth and he's leaning close, almost lying on top of her through her sleeping bag. Her eyes desperately trying to convey her apologies, her explanations, but his expression's inscrutable.

He reluctantly moves his hand and shuffles backwards. "Hurry up." He says, his eyes stormy and conflicted. "We don't have much time.

TBC ...


	15. Choices

Choices. 

Firstly, thank you so much for all the reviews for the last chapter! I'm so glad that you enjoyed it and thought that I did justice to the whole incident. And whatever happens in 2.07 and beyond, this will stay Daryl and Andrea, even if it goes AU!

Secondly, Clarissa8 mentioned just how nice Daryl's shoulders are. I think we can all agree on that. I recently watched The Boondock Saints and I couldn't believe just how much he's bulked up since then! In a good way, of course. His arms are just lovely

So here we have it, the next instalment! I figured I'd post it in anticipation of tonight's episode, although just how canon-compliant it's going to be is anyone's guess. Not that it matters at this point, I suppose. I think I threw canon out about ten chapters ago.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. And I think that this chapter might have a slightly fluffy ending. Oh well.

###

He waits outside her tent while Andrea dresses, her hands trembling and fumbling with her clothes in a way she hasn't for a while. She feels drunk from lack of sleep and the incredulity of the information he's just handed her. A barn full of walkers? She can't believe she ever considered closing her eyes in this place. Despite that information, which is awful enough on its own, it's the other part that makes her clamp her mouth around her fist to stop from crying out.

Shane killed Otis.

The lawyer in her tells her that it doesn't have to mean how it sounds. They weren't there, they don't know the situation. It could have been that Otis was a walker, or soon to become one. Shane could have been doing Otis a kindness if he was badly mangled. She put her sister down like a rabid dog, didn't she? It isn't too much of a stretch to imagine Shane doing that to a complete stranger.

But there's something about the way Daryl says it which indicates that was most definitely _not_ what happened.

Daryl sticks his head through the tent flap just as she's pulling on a sweater. "Hurry up!" He whispers hoarsely. He looks angry and tired and he isn't looking her in the eye.

"How do you know about Shane and the barn?" She asks as they walk to the RV, her feet slipping out of the walking boots she'd thrown on and not fastened. She feels cold and alone as they walk, despite the heat of the night and Daryl's presence beside her. They're only inches apart as they walk one by one into the RV – him first, her bringing up the rear – but the distance between them may as well be miles of terrain that she's now ill-equipped to traverse.

"Dale." He mutters economically. He's not expending any more words than are necessary and she can't tell if it's just because he's talking to her or because he doesn't want to talk at all.

Dale's waiting for them in the RV when they arrive and for the first time since knowing him, he looks old to Andrea. He looks old and worn out and tired and she wonders at the strain that he's under. Being the constantly optimistic one of their group must be exhausting after a while, especially when things keep going wrong. And now he looks like he's only just realising it himself. Her heart breaks for him, in a way. He's been so sure that things will work out and now the house of cards he's crafted is in danger of falling down around his ears.

"Good, you're here." Dale says as they enter, his gaze darting between the pair of them and Andrea realises with a sinking feeling that he's probably aware of the tension even if their mutually rigid stance doesn't give it away. Is nothing sacred anymore? Or have they all just stopped bothering to hide their emotions and no-one has noticed?

Glenn and Carol are already in the RV. The dog swings shut behind Andrea and she jumps, turning around to see T-Dog standing behind her cradling Dale's rifle. He gives her a wary smile and as Andrea glances around the RV she sees that the only absent quarry survivors are Lori, Shane, Rick and Carl. Are they scheming against them now, plotting a coup? It feels that way.

"The barn's full of walkers?" Andrea says without preamble. Everything about the meeting feels clandestine and a little sordid, even though she knows that it's not, not really. If the others were there, Rick would pontificate, Lori would lose it and Shane would probably go off the deep end and they can't have that. They need to think rationally, start thinking about just what they're going to do.

Glenn nods, looking excessively guilty. "I kinda found out by accident." He says. He doesn't say how but Andrea's willing to bet that it's got something to do with Maggie. She feels sorry for the poor kid: the first girl who likes him and she comes with major, major baggage.

"Thought the barn was off-limits." Daryl snorts. Its then Andrea notices that he's got his crossbow cradled too close to his chest, his knife slipped in his belt and a pistol tucked into the back of his jeans. His whole body vibrates with barely-contained tension and she curses herself for leaving her pistol in her tent.

Glenn's face colours scarlet. "It is." He says, looking flustered.

"Save it." Daryl says shortly. He doesn't want to hear explanations, only solutions. "So what do we do?" He says.

"About which part?" T-Dog chimes in. "Shane or the walkers?"

"Shane killed Otis, Andrea." Dale says softly. "He's unstable. He can't be trusted."

Andrea can feel his and Carol's eyes on her and Daryl, clearly expecting some kind of reaction from her and Daryl.

"How do you know?" She asks the hastily-convened revolutionary meeting. It's clearly not the reaction they're expecting because they look at each other in surprise, as though they've not thought about the possible dimensions of Shane's guilt.

"Jesus." Daryl mutters under his breath. Andrea can feel his eye roll without looking at him.

"I'm serious." She says, her gaze darting from one face to another. "I'm not defending him, I'm just saying that before we get torches and pitchforks, we need to be sure. He did save Carl's life, at considerable risk to his own. He's only ever thought about the safety of the group."

"Figures." Daryl mutters.

Andrea turns to him, her face flush with anger. "Something you want to say to me, Daryl?" She snaps, not in the mood for his pissy remarks. If he wants to be pissed with her then that's fine but she wants to be sure they know just what they're doing before they take action.

"Yeah, there is." He snaps. "You ain't in court now, Andrea." He snaps. "You ain't a lawyer so don't try to defend your boyfriend because we don't want to hear it."

Andrea tries to ignore the way his words slice at her. She makes herself channel the pain into cold, hard, logical anger. "Get over yourself, Dixon." She snaps. "He's not my boyfriend but he is a member of this camp and before we feed him to that barn of walkers we might want to make sure that we're sure of what we're doing. You want that on your conscience?" She finishes, meeting his gaze with her own.

"You're damned right I do." He says, his voice so low she can barely hear him. "Cos I sure as hell wouldn't want him watching my back if he's gonna shoot me as soon as he decides I'm dead weight."

They're chest to chest now but the distance between them has never been greater, even when she first arrived at the camp. She can still remember his coolly dispassionate gaze as they stood on that highway of abandoned bodies and calmly informed her that if she was dead weight he'd cut her lose. It's like everything that's happened since then has ceased to exist, but she knows that it hasn't and that's the problem. It's cleaving into the present and bleeding out into their discussion and its going to poison everything if they don't get themselves under control.

"As much as I want to talk about Shane, I don't think he's our most pressing concern." Dale says diplomatically, trying to silence any further discussion between the pair. "There are walkers in the barn. Herschel's family and friends. He's convinced that they can find some kind of cure, to make them go back to normal." He adds grimly.

They all consider that for a moment. Andrea tries to imagine locking her sister in a room, anxiously waiting out news of a cure. It's a stretch as much as it isn't. If she was a scientist, or a God-fearing woman whose sole experience of what has happened had been through the lens of this isolated farmhouse, would she be any different? She isn't sure, but Herschel's perception of the apocalypse is different to hers, to Daryl's, to Dale's. He hasn't been out there, hasn't seen what can happen. Jenner's fancy computer analysis aside, she's seen what happens to people when they become walkers and there's nothing left but a husk, an empty shell with nothing but a blank, vacant nightmare of never-ending hunger. It's hard trying to reconcile that with the vibrant, alive people they used to be. It's easy to slip into denial and believe that there is a cure, or there will be, that your last memory of your loved ones won't be a pistol muzzle pressed against bloodied blonde tresses and whispered apologies about failing your kid sister. Better that than accept the alternative, which is that you gunned down your own sister as she lay in your arms.

Better that than realise there is no cure, no escape. That's worse: the thoughts of never-ending running, endless fighting, waiting to either get bit and put a bullet in your own head or slowly gun down one friend and loved one after another as governments and societies implode under the weight of poor planning and sheer scientific ignorance. They live in an age where modernism is defined by science and technology, by an unshakable faith that science and technology can find the answers to man's ills: cancer, disease, even death itself. Is this the answer, the culmination of man's desire to beat death? Hadn't Jenner said that they had made no progress in finding a cure, that the best cure so far was a bullet or axe to the brain? Extermination as a cure? The thought makes her feel sick but she can't deny that in this new world, it's probably better than keeping your loved ones chained up in a barn waiting for something to happen.

"Does Rick know?" She asks, dragging herself away from an increasingly depressing inner monologue.

Dale shakes his head. "Not to my knowledge." He says, his gaze shifting from Andrea to Glenn, something silent and unspoken passing between them. It's another conversation without words; they're all becoming masters of silent, nonverbal communication. Maybe they're evolving.

Daryl notices it too and sighs. "Spit it out." He snaps.

"Lori's pregnant." Dale says finally.

Everyone considers that for a moment and predictably enough, it's Daryl who voices the question they're all thinking and no-one wants to ask.

"Is it Rick's or Shane's?" He asks finally.

"I don't know." Dale says eventually. The fact that he can't answer says it all, really. No-one definitively thinks it isn't Shane's but no-one can say for sure that it's Rick's, either.

Andrea puts a hand over her mouth. She legitimately thinks that she might be sick. As she glances around, she sees that everyone else is experiencing something of a similar reaction and wonders just how they managed to get to this point, where they're discussing walkers in the barn and 'dealing' with a man who may well have fathered a child with the wife of his best friend. Have they somehow segued into a nightmarish distortion of the present, some kind of horribly skewed dystopia of hell?

"Does he know?" She asks eventually.

No-one wants to know the answer to that question. One way or the other they all fear that this knowledge might be what pushes Shane over the edge.

Once again it's Dale who brings them back to the matter at hand. "What do we do about the walkers?" He says.

Daryl who offers a suggestion that's probably the one they all want to take. "Kill 'em all." He says bluntly.

"We can't do that." Glenn protests. "It isn't our property, they aren't our families."

"You really wanna go around claimin' ownership on walkers?" Daryl snaps.

"I agree with Daryl." Andrea says softly. His solution, while extreme, is the logical one. A walker's a walker. "We should put them all down. They're a danger to us, to the others at the farm. They shouldn't be in there. We can't stay here while they're chained up in that barn."

"And where would we go?" Dale asks. "You want to go back on the road? With what gas, what supplies? And what about Sophia?" He asks when he sees Carol's eyes begin to water

"Well we can't stay here if they're in the barn!" Andrea exclaims, before immediately thinking the better of it. "I'm sorry, Carol, I didn't mean-"

"I know." Carol says quietly. "I know."

An awful tension fills the room, the choices before them populating the RV with more bulk and weight than any people. It's hard to breathe, hard to move through the morass of possible consequences. Do they stay here and search for Sophia and risk putting everyone's life in danger, or do they take their chances, leave the farm and consign a young girl to death?

"We ain't leaving' 'til we find Sophia." Daryl says firmly. "So we put down the walkers and carry on searchin'."

###

They talk in circles until the sun comes up and it looks a little obvious that they're all stood in the RV scheming like the witches in Macbeth. Daryl's the first one out the door and Andrea's not far behind him. It's hot outside, even at this early hour and she can feel herself begin to wilt under the intense heat. She's almost wishing it was fall.

"Something you want to say to me, Daryl?" She asks as the pair stalk across the campsite, heading away from the camp and out towards the barn.

"Nope." He says bluntly, not breaking stride.

"Where are you going?" She says, the long grass of the field brushing against her as she struggles to keep up with him. His legs are longer than hers and he's moving swiftly and quietly.

"Gonna check out the barn then carry on lookin' for Sophia." He says, and now she's running to keep up with him.

"Are you serious? Daryl, you're still injured."

"We know whose fault that is." He says simply, and his words make her stop dead in her tracks. She would have rather he yelled at her.

"I'm sorry." She whispers. "You know I'm sorry."

He stops then but he doesn't turn around. "'bout what?" He asks. "You were defendin' the group, thought I was a walker."

Andrea grinds her teeth and looks at the tree line, waiting for some kind of apologetic inspiration to hit her. "You kissed me." She says finally.

"You apologisin' for that, too?" He says, his voice rough and hoarse.

"No." She says quickly, taking advantage of his momentary stillness to approach him. "It was a great kiss." She exhales deeply. "Shane and I-"

"I don't want to hear it." He says softly.

"Well tough because I want to tell you." She's next to him then, can feel the tension and the anger radiate off of him. "It was the heat of the moment." She begins, trying to form the words in her mouth before she speaks. When did she become so blunt and imprecise and unable to form a sentence that wasn't vague and full of half-meanings? Talking has never been a problem for her but standing in front of Daryl, she feels like the most inarticulate person in the state of Georgia.

"You really don't need to explain." He says simply. He's giving her an easy out but she's not going to take it, not now. They're going to stand here in this field on this hot Georgia morning and talk about this.

"Yeah, I do." She retorts, fighting the urge to sigh. Their verbal thrust and parry is exhausting her more than the heat or her lack of sleep. Can they never find the right words to talk, find the right language to communicate?

"I owe you an explanation. I ... I wanted to feel something, after the walkers in the suburbs." She says haltingly. "Shane ... I know that he loves Lori." She says flatly, willing truth into her eyes and forcing it into his as she stares at him unblinkingly. "And that's why ... I wanted something that wasn't anything." She continues. "I just wanted something to relieve the tension and he was there. And you're right: I don't have to justify myself to you, or my actions. But I want to." She says honestly, the surprise she sees on his face making her continue. "I want to tell you for the same reason I had sex with Shane and not you: because if it had been you, it would have meant something, to me. And until yesterday I didn't know if it would mean as much to you as it did to me."

When he doesn't answer she plows on. "And I kept my eyes closed the whole time." She mutters, dropping her gaze and wishing that she could just stuff all the words back into her mouth because she can feel him watching her, feel the tension threaded through this horrible, horrible interaction. "Because when I opened them, all I saw was him, and he wasn't you."

There. She's said it. It isn't much of an explanation, but it's the only one she's got. At least it's a variation of, 'it's not you, it's me.' So she just stands there and waits for him to say something, to get mad, scream, shout, throw his crossbow at her – anything.

But he doesn't.

He just turns on his heel and walks towards the barn.

TBC ...


	16. Mean It

Mean It. 

"You have to mean it." Because that mantra doesn't just apply to pointing a gun and pulling the trigger.

Y'all are impatient! Here's the next one with love and hugs and many, many thanks for your lovely reviews. This is just a shortie before tonight's episode, hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

###

When he comes back from his search she's asleep in his tent.

He doesn't know how long she's been there but it's long enough to have dozed off atop his sleeping bag, her shirt abandoned in favour of a soft jersey vest that's now slipping up above the waistband of her jeans. She can't have been there long; the sun's not yet at its highest point and it was daybreak when he left. Truth be told, he didn't search for Sophia. He couldn't focus. He was too pissed to search. Pissed at her and at himself.

She doesn't wake when he comes in, just moans slightly in her sleep and shifts her body to the side.

He sighs. _What the hell are they going to do?_

Rationally, he knows that she isn't at fault here, no more than he is. She's a young, single woman in a world where men, decent men in particular are going to be increasingly hard to find. Their civility and decency's being shaved off inch by inch with each passing day as they have to sacrifice that little bit more of themselves on the altar of survival. But the funny thing is, is that more and more Daryl's come to think of himself as decent. Perhaps not Rick 'We don't kill the living' Grimes decent, but more decent than Shane Walsh who left his partner to rot in a hospital bed and did something to Lori Grimes that was so bad it left tear marks in his face (just because Daryl didn't say anything doesn't mean he didn't see; Merle had a similar injury a few years back after "getting fresh" with a girl).

The travesty of all of this is that not only would Andrea be one of the first people to agree with him, but it's precisely because of that that she chose Shane for mindless sex rather than him.

He should be pleased, in some sick way: she basically admitted that if she was to sleep with him it would mean something.

Oddly enough, it doesn't make him feel that much better.

She shifts in her sleep, trying to get comfortable in the intense heat. There's a bead of sweat traversing her collarbone, pooling in her clavicle. He remembers how her sweat tastes; sweet, like homemade lemonade on the warm day. He fists his hands and sets the crossbow down, nervously circling the sleeping woman in his bed, trying to decide what to do with her, and himself.

He knows where she's coming from, of course he does. He's the first to admit that he's hardly been an angel in the past, that it's easy to bury yourself in someone who you feel nothing for rather than someone you do care about, because that brings baggage. It brings questions. If brings expectations. It changes things and not always for the better.

He wonders how it would change things for him and Andrea, and bites down on his lip to keep from smiling when he realises that it would change things in more and fewer ways than he's prepared to admit.

He'd walked off his rage from earlier. He's got no real cause to be made at her. After all, if he can forgive her for shooting him then he can forgive her for sleeping with Shane, right? Not that there's anything to forgive, not really. Despite their recent interactions and the obvious hypotheses of their group, they're two single people who are free to spend time with whoever they like. He should have done something sooner, right? Instead of playing out this bizarre game like things were actually normal, he should have been more assertive, should have made some kind of claim over her. It's a primeval way of looking at it, but their world is slowly regressing backwards in terms of social relations and it's not lost on him that just as there's a shortage of decent men, there's going to be a shortage of women too. It's never bothered him before but as he looks at Andrea asleep in his bed and thinks about her with someone else, it bothers him more than he cares to admit.

Part of the problem had been that he had no idea how to respond to her admission in that field. _If it had been you, it would have meant something, to me._

_It would have meant something_.

Daryl hasn't had much in his life that meant anything: an absent mother, a drunk father, a lout of a brother, no real work or education save for the hunting and tracking skills he'd picked up. His metric of what things mean are radically different to Andrea's and the rest of the group's, emotionally and materially. It's only now that he's truly beginning to get a measure on what it means when people say that something matters to them, that it means something. It implies value, something to be desired and coveted and locked away and treasured, protected at all costs. That 'something' isn't an amorphous nothing but something to be fought for and guarded and nurtured. To someone who hasn't had anything, that's an overawing concept.

But Andrea's right, he knows this: it would mean something. Not just to him and her but to 'them' as a pair and as a group. It would bind them all more tightly together, solidify the bonds that have sprung up between the quarry and this farm. It would give him an emotional stake in the future, would give him someone to look out for, someone to think about. It would give her someone to think about. It would be almost like filling the void left by their absent siblings, or driving in the truck without caring where his hand happened to fall, or slow-dancing to one country song after another. It would mean not taking a drink when someone says, "I have never been lonely." It would mean that they would stay together, or leave together.

Ironically enough, it was Shane who made him realise this.

He'd stalked down to the barn, primarily to get a look inside and see just what was going on in there but also to walk off his anger.

And had walked right into Shane.

"Daryl." Shane had said, rising from his position just outside the barn, where he had been carefully concealed by some of the longer grass, his back pressed against an old, disused John Deere tractor, his familiar shotgun resting across his lap.

"Shane." Daryl's pleased with himself: he sounds halfways civil. Even if he does want to kick the shit out of Shane on the inside.

The two men glare at each other, warily circling the other. Shane's the first one to speak. "Where ya goin'?"

Daryl shrugs. "Walkabout." He says.

"Walkabout, huh?"

"Yup."

"You thinkin' of takin' a walkabout over to that barn?" Shane asks. Daryl gives him some credit for that: he'd forgotten that Shane used to be a cop.

Daryl shrugs. "Hadn't decided." He says, his eyes on Shane's hands as he watches him check the powerful shotgun on his lap. His hands are large and powerful and an image of them gripping Andrea's shoulder flashes into his mind. He audibly grinds his teeth.

Shane's still cleaning his weapon as he asks, "Are we gonna have a problem, Daryl?"

Daryl's half-surprised that he's so direct. He wonders if he was so direct with Otis. "Depends." He says neutrally.

"On what?"

"On whether you have a problem."

Shane actually barks a laugh at him then. "Whether _I_ have a problem?" He says incredulously, meeting Daryl's eyes. Blue meets brown and neither man is prepared to back down. "Last time I checked, we're all consenting adults. Unless that's changed any."

"Nope."

"Only you seemed pretty pissed last night."

"I've been shot. Tends to upset my zen, y'know. But you'd know all about shooting people, right?"

Shane's left eye twitches just slightly. "Walkers ain't people." He says eventually.

"I know." Daryl retorts.

"So what are you implyin'?" Shane snaps, in Daryl's face before he can even blink.

"I think you know exactly what I'm implyin'." Daryl says softly, meeting the ex-cop eye for eye, toe to toe. A large part of him wants Shane to throw the first punch, wants an excuse to beat the living shit out of him.

On second thought, he doesn't need an excuse. "I think its mighty convenient for you that you come back from that run without a mark on you and Otis becomes food for walkers." He says softly.

"Without a mark on me?" Shane barks. "You call a busted ankle nothing?"

Daryl gives him a nasty grin. "Compared to that nasty-lookin' scratch on your head, yeah." He drawls. "Havin' longer hair hurts like a bitch when someone pulls it out, huh?"

He's prepared for the punch that Shane throws his way and ducks easily, barrelling into Shane with a football tackle, the two men landing in the hot, dusty grass with a loud thump. They scrap and swing and parry for several minutes until they're both bruised and bloody and Daryl's clutching his side. He's pretty sure the stitches are torn. Or at least, they are when he butts Shane right on the nose, putting all his body weight into the move. The two men slump against the abandoned tractor, Shane clutching his ruined nose while Daryl fights to stop the blood leaking out of his side.

"Surprised you didn't pull your knife on me." Shane says, groaning in pain as he resets his nose.

"You had your pistol." Daryl retorts.

The two men glare at each other for several minutes. Neither man is really done, not even close, but the need to beat the shit out of each other has passed for now. Eventually, Shane speaks again. "She called out your name." He says eventually, so quietly that Daryl barely heard him.

"What?" He says, incredulous.

Shane wipes the blood from his nose with the corner of his shirt. "Andrea called your name while we ..." He trails off then. "I don't think she even heard herself. But she did. Shane and Daryl don't exactly sound alike, y'know?"

Daryl looks down at that. Shane's been honest with him; he figures that he can afford him the same courtesy. Even if he is an asshole and likely a murderer, too. "Speak to Lori." He says eventually. "She's got news for you."

###

Andrea's shoulder's soft and warm as his hand slides along her shoulder blade and rests atop her shoulder. She wakes almost immediately, her hand on the pistol that's under his pillow. "Woah, its just me." He says softly. She's groggy with sleep and the heat, her eyes focusing on him after a few moments.

"Did I fall asleep?" She asks drowsily, putting a hand to her head as though she's trying to push out the fog.

"Yeah, you did." He says softly. "So ... your tent not enough for ya, huh?" He says, giving her a wry grin.

A flush creeps up her neck and cheeks. "I just wanted to be here, when you got back." She admits. She looks shy and unsure, a far cry from the angry woman who had stood in front of him only a few hours ago.

"Well, I'm back." He gently pushes a damp strand of hair out of her face. "I'm not mad at ya." He says. "I'm not. Well ... I wish ya hadn't slept with Shane but its not like we're married or together or anythin'." He says, his hands lingering in her hair for just a moment. She smells good. "I just wanted to walk it off, check out the barn." His gaze lingers on hers. "We got ourselves into somethin' here, huh?"

"Something like that." Andrea says softly. "Do we ... do we need to talk about this?" She asks haltingly.

He shrugs. "Not as much as we need to talk about the barn full of walkers."

She sighs and reaches for her shirt. "I'll take my gun this time." She says.

TBC ...

Okay, this really is the last one before tonight's episode!


	17. Wake Up

Wake Up.

So ... how about that midseason finale, huh? So much happening I scarce know where to begin except to say: AMC writers, please, please, please don't turn Daryl and Carol into some kind of romance. Please, I'm begging you. Keep them in their nice mother/son thing they've got going on. And what about Shane, huh? I have a feeling that he's going to snap pretty soon ... And poor Sophia. My heart breaks for her and Carol. Although ... I must say that I'm glad they've resolved that storyline. It went on for half as season! Doesn't make it any less sad, though

I'm not sure what I think about this chapter. I don't really feel like I'm doing them justice, but you guys might feel differently. Hope you enjoy, at any rate.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

###

The sound of the bullet is gone within seconds but it echoes around Andrea's mind long after Rick has holstered his weapon and an unexpected thunderstorm has washed away Sophia's blood. It slices through Carol's increasingly hysterical wails which ring out in marked contrast to Carl's childlike cries and Herschel's quiet stoicism. It blots out the words of comfort and rationalisation that spring forth from Lori's lips as she's torn between her inconsolable son and her shell-shocked husband. It hammers down on their group an ugly awakening. It reminds them that they aren't safe here. That nowhere is safe. That they've become soft and complacent here, that if they want to survive they're going to have to start making some hard choices.

Shane's already made his choice; Andrea can see it in the way he's standing, staring at the bodies of Herschel's family and friends. He's got that look in his eye, the look that indicates that he's not happy by what's happened but he's not unhappy either. He's been vindicated, proved right. For weeks he's been telling people that they need to toughen up, that they can't stay here, that they won't be safe. He's probably gone over the edge of crazy, but that doesn't mean he's not right, because he is. He is right. They can't stay here. Andrea doesn't think she'll ever get another night's sleep here again without seeing Sophia's face. And they won't be safe. They won't be safe from their own imaginations, from their own guilt. They won't be safe from themselves.

She moves to Daryl's side, reaching out to him as Lori and the others crowd around Carol, wrestling her from his grip. He lets her slide through his fingers with an unreadable expression.

"You did everything you could." Andrea says, watching Daryl as he watches Carol with a dazed expression. Even when Amy died, she did not feel as helpless as she does now.

"It wasn't enough." He mutters, slowly backing away from the group, shaking her arm away and wiping at his face, leaving dirt and sweat and odd blades of grass on his skin. His eyes glitter with something she didn't ever think she'd see from him: tears.

"Daryl-" She says, moving to follow him but he shakes his head and backs one, two, five paces away from her.

"It wasn't enough." He repeats. He backs away and is gone before Andrea can catch him.

###

She finds him some time later hunched over Merle's motorcycle, a rag in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other, Carol's wails peppering the wet, hot air around them in a soundtrack of melancholia and heartbreak.

"Go 'way." He mumbles as he hears her come into one of Herschel's outbuildings and close the door behind her, the creaking wood and metal hinges slicing through the horrible, sad quiet, muffling Carol's wails and blanket of grief that wraps itself around the farm.

"No." Andrea says softly, taking the pistol from the waistband of her jeans and setting it on the table. She doesn't need any weapons for the journey she's about to make. It's probably better if she goes unarmed, devoid of any accoutrements of defence. He's completely defenceless, why should she be?

"Go 'way." He repeats.

Andrea feels her heart break when she sees him under the single, dimly lit light bulb that's suspended from the ceiling and is probably running on the last of Herschel's generator power. His whole body's hunched over the bike, radiating tension and remorse. She can see the muscles in his back and shoulders move as he frantically, maniacally cleans the bike with a rag that she recognises as one of his shirts in a former life.

"No." She says in a firm whisper, approaching him slowly, softly, as she's seen him do with skittish horses. "It wasn't your fault." She says softly, her hand hovering just above his skin. He's fiery hot even at a distance, wound so tight she's sure he's going to explode. But she isn't going anywhere, not now. Carol has everyone else. Daryl has no-one but her. People swarmed around Carol as they tried to tend to a wound that Andrea fears will be mortal. They didn't think about Daryl, didn't think about what he had done for Sophia. She just prays that his wound isn't mortal, too.

"Don't." He snaps, his voice holding an anger and hatred she hasn't heard for a while. "Just go 'way. Leave me be."

"It wasn't your fault." She says again, gently resting her hand on his shoulder. His hands still on the bike as soon as he feels her skin on his. "You did everything you could, Daryl. You went above and beyond everyone else, you almost died because you were searching for her."

He shakes his head, his whole body vibrating beneath her touch. "Wasn't enough." He says softly. "In the end, all counted for nothing'"

"We don't know how long she'd been a walker." Andrea rationalises. "It could have happened days ago, once she got bit there was nothing we could have done."

"I should have been there." He says, his voice sounding hoarse and strangled. Andrea feels a tear slip down her cheek.

"You did everything that you could." She says, inching closer and leaning down, gently resting her head on his shoulder, putting her arms around him, wishing she could convey her remorse and sorrow for him. His vibrating begins to intensify, soon developing into shuddering. "It wasn't your fault." She says. "It wasn't your fault." She whispers again and again and again.

"I should have been there." His hand moves to his eyes then, a sob escaping through his lips as he bows his head.

"Shhhh, its okay." She says, moving around to face him, pressing her forehead to his. She won't let him be alone for this, won't let him carry this alone.

He moves his head way, not quite prepared to let her see him like this: vulnerable, sad, feeling like a failure. It's probably the first time anyone has ever seen him like this. He's probably scared people away in the past with an angry glare or an angrier word, wanting to be alone when he breaks down. She can't imagine there was much tolerance for tears in the Dixon house. They were probably told not to cry. She wonders if he even remembers what it means to cry.

Either way, she's not going anywhere.

Taking his face between her hands, she makes him look at her, her thumbs pushing away his tears. "I have never had a sad boy cry on me about a dead girl." She says softly.

Its all the encouragement he needs.

She never wants to hear Daryl Dixon cry again.

Once he's done, her shirt's wet through with tears and he can't look her in the eye until she gently kisses him, surprising herself with how open she is with him now, how open she needs to be with him right now. "I'm not going anywhere." She says softly, needing to prove to him that he hasn't failed, that what he's done matters to them all, that it has to matter to himself. He has to wake up and see that what he's done for Sophia meant something, that his searching wasn't in vain. He has to wake up and see the journey he's taken, see where he's come, see how people perceive him now.

His grip tightens on her hips as he tugs her closer, resting his head on her shoulder. She's almost afraid to move, afraid to say anything else in case she spooks him. Something tells her that this is the only time she's ever going to see him like this and she's almost afraid to move, until he moves her himself. Sat on the bike, his head's in line with her collarbone and it's easy for him to gently press his forehead and then his lips to the half-moon of skin that's at the top of her t-shirt, gently moving his lips upwards in an agonisingly slow ascent up her collarbone, her neck, the soft cleft of skin just beneath her jaw before his lips land searchingly on her lips.

This kiss is different to their first. It's salty with tears and sweat and bitter with regrets and sadness for lost children who'll never come home. It's heartbreaking in its pain and its honesty and she can feel them both sob into the other as her mouth opens and his tongue slips beyond her lips to massage hers. His hands are clumsily gentle as he touches her shoulder, her waist, toying with the button and zipper on her jeans. She's never seen him clumsy before, but then she's never seen him this gentle, either. There aren't any words spoken between them as he shifts their positions so she's sat on the bike, the only noises the thready scrape-scrape-scrape of her zipper as he gently tugs it down, the rustle of dirty, well-washed denim as he pulls down her jeans, his eyes never leaving hers. They both need this, need to sate the fire that's been awoken inside of them, the need to feel alive and close and together.

Her hands tremble as she reaches for the buckle on his pants.

They both cry out when he slips inside her for the first time. He's warm and solid and hard and for a moment he's still, his face snug against her neck as he composes himself. She can feel his tears trickle down her neck, dampening her hair. She doesn't think she's ever felt closer to another human being in her life. It's so close and so honest and so unabashed that she wants to flinch, wants to shy away because she's not sure that she can handle it. But then she feels his hand gently reach around and grip the base of her neck, shifting her body so her legs are wrapped around his waist as he moves his hips, and she realises that she couldn't flinch, even if she wanted to. She can't flinch away from him now, not when he's in front of her and inside of her and he's staring at her with glassy eyes stripped of any veneer or armour. And she doesn't want to.

It doesn't last long, but she keeps her eyes open the whole time and breathes his name into the soft, warm flesh on his neck.

They fall asleep in his tent in a tangle of arms and legs and sore muscles. When they wake up, Daryl's eyes are puffy and red-rimmed but clear.

TBC ...


	18. Wall

Wall.

I have no idea where the writers are going to take the rest of this season. I don't think I can wait until February to find out. I'm not sure how many more I'll be posting between now and February; this fic started out as moments between Andrea and Daryl that slip between the cracks, but we seem to have segued out of that and into something that feels a lot more like a story arc to me. I don't have any issue with it, just that ... I've written the fic in a way I didn't really plan for it to go. It's got more cohesion now, which is great, but ... oh whatever. I'll write and update this when I feel like it, dammit! And it's so far into AU territory now that I can't even remember what canon looks like ... oh yeah: Andrea and Shane in a green Hyundai. Pass me the bleach, please – I don't think my eyes were thoroughly rinsed out the first time.

I wasn't all that happy with the last chapter, so I'm gonna unpack it a bit over the course of the next few chapters. If I'm still not happy with it then I might rewrite the lot. I'm rarely happy with my own work though. I can't stop editing!

Many thanks for my lovely reviews for the last chapter, I'm touched, really. It sounds so corny and glib but I really am pleased that you're all enjoying it: seeing the alerts in my inbox really does make my day. You guys ROCK and don't let anyone ever tell you any different.

Flora Bora: Interesting that you mention you're a Rick/Andrea 'shipper because of the comics; when I watched the first few episodes of TWD I wondered about their chemistry, too! Although now I *heart* Daryl and Andrea! Be interesting to see where the writers go with all these relationships!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. But I was listening to Adele's Turning Tables when I wrote this. Probably made me maudlin.

###

Somehow, somewhere within the last twelve hours, a wall has gone up between them. It's a thing of architectural beauty and emotional tragedy, robust in structure and almost impregnable. She isn't sure when he decided that he had to build a wall around himself again, but he has and he's done it so quickly and quietly she would have missed it had she not been more observant.

They're lying in his tent when she first notices it, notices the tension in his shoulders as he lies just beyond her fingertips, sheened with sweat. His back muscles flex as he sits up, reaching for his vest. It's the morning after the night before and they're in his tent and Andrea's body is sore in a way it hasn't been for a while.

"Where are you going?" She mumbles. In the past he'd been up early, searching for Sophia, but they know where she is now.

Carol, Lori and Rick buried her body just beyond the Greene farm last night while Daryl and Andrea were in the outhouse.

"Out." He says bluntly. There's a pause then before he speaks again. "Just gonna take a walk." He amends, giving her a half-smile as though he's just remembered that they've had sex and they're meant to like each other. His hands linger in her blonde hair for just a split second, playing with the thick yellow strands. She wonders if it's meant to be reassuring.

"Are you okay?" She asks, gently touching his shoulder. She knows that he's in pain – all other things considered, he's still not healed properly – and she wants to help, but as she watches him shrug into a familiar ripped plaid shirt and leave the tent with a swift kiss to her temple, she can't help but realise that he might not want it.

She knows why, of course. And she doesn't blame him. For reasons she can only guess at, he's a closed-off guy. He doesn't speak the language of emotional intimacy. The words are clumsy and foreign in his mouth. He's forgotten what it's like to cry and have someone give a shit. It must have been hard for him to lose himself in her like that only a few short hours ago, and the fact that he did so willingly speaks volumes to her about his state of mind: it isn't his style, isn't what he's about. Meaning that he must have only done that if he was exhausted, worn down, crushed by the realisation that in his mind he'd failed Sophia and the group. All these tracking and hunting skills and what had he discovered? An abandoned farmhouse and a raggedy doll. The past few days must have shaken his faith in himself and his skills as much as his stoicism and angry veneer.

At lunchtime she ventures to the one place she thinks he might be.

The cross is clumsy, two branches held together with what appears to be a dirty shoelace. The ground's fresh, the mound a fraction of the size it should be.

Parents shouldn't outlive their children.

"Thought I'd find you here." She says as she drops down next to him, her gaze flickering to the white flowers in the beer bottle that sits at his feet. He's toying with it as though it's the answer to everything. "Dale's cooking up some fish, if you're hungry."

He shakes his head. "No. Thanks." He adds.

"Gotta keep your strength up while you heal." She says, tugging at the grass. Even despite the previous evening's rain, the ground's bone-dry beneath her body.

His eyes don't move from the grave. "I'm fine." He says.

He doesn't look fine. He looks lost.

She thinks back to the story he told her while they searched for Sophia, remembers his blunt words about being lost for days, about no-one missing him while he was gone. She isn't sure which part is the more heartbreaking: that he was able to get into that position in the first place, or that no-one noticed that he was gone for nearly a week and a half.

There's something more to that story, she hypothesises, something more than poison oak and wandering through the forest. She could ask him. He won't tell her, of this she's sure, but she can ask, all the same.

"You know it wasn't your fault." She says softly. "What happened to her."

"Stop it." He says, shaking his head. "I know ... I know you want to help. But it's just ... just don't. She was lost and now she's ain't because she's a walker. Was a walker." He amends, tugging violently on the long grasses to his side. "And we have zero tolerance for walkers, right?"

It's not the first time he's said it but now the words sound unbelievably cruel as they come out of his mouth, as though he's parodying himself. It was easier for him to say it _then_, when the group meant relatively little to him. But _now_ they're family and he almost died looking for Sophia and he cried to Andrea about it and he's trying to take all that emotion and vulnerability back, to stuff the words and the tears back into his mouth and his eyes, to force that little box shut.

Andrea sighs as she feels another brick slide home.

She's sure that embarrassment plays a role too. It's all too easy to imagine that in the broader social and cultural world he inhabited before this, guys didn't cry. Men didn't express emotions like love, and loss, and pain and suffering so deep that they make you howl and sob from the very depths of your soul. They aren't supposed to feel emotions so deeply that you feel like you're being split in two from their weight. Tears were weak, demeaning, offensive. There was no appreciation of just how cathartic it can be to let yourself just feel, to let the wave of sorrow crash into you and drag you from your moorings because once you're free and you're falling there's a weird kind of serenity there, a strange kind of peace. To be sure, you're cast adrift, but the tide throws you up somewhere eventually and it often isn't all bad.

"There's no shame in being upset by what happened to Sophia." She says eventually.

He doesn't say anything, his gaze fixed on the white flower in the beer bottle.

###

Carol's having trouble sleeping, so Daryl offers to go back to the highway to see what they can siphon. Andrea joins him. Its either that or listen to Lori and Rick's increasingly tense and terse arguments and Carl's quieter but infinitely more worrying pain that fills the RV like an thick fog of unnoticed grief.

No-one wants to go up to the farmhouse to ask Herschel if they have any sleeping pills. It feels like they've taken too much from him already.

To her surprise, Daryl wants to ride Merle's bike. She takes his truck and as she watches the lone figure move out in front of her, leading them back to the highway of death, she realises that while Carol's may be the obvious and profound grief, there's at least two other quiet tragedies that are being playing out in their camp.

Pilfering the wares of others has never been Andrea's favourite part of the zombie apocalypse, but by any metric this particular scavenger hunt is horribly maudlin. The food that they left for Sophia is still there, and it suddenly occurs to Andrea that there's no way Herschel and the others (Rick mentioned something about it being Otis' job to catch walkers in a noose like they were errant pets) had put walkers in the barn after they arrived, they would have either heard or seen something. Meaning that Sophia had to have been in that barn before they arrived, before Shane and Otis went to the health centre. Meaning that Sophia must have turned into a walker shortly after she disappeared.

She fights the urge to dry-heave into the nearby bushes.

She and Daryl say little to each other as they work their way through the cars. There isn't anything to say, really: what could they say? That the owner of this blue SUV obviously had high blood pressure because his pills were in the glovebox? That the young teenaged girl in the back of that red station wagon had birth control pills tucked into her purse (which reminds Andrea that maybe investing in birth control isn't such a bad idea if last night is ever going to be repeated; it was sheer luck that she had condoms in her purse during her interludes with Shane and Daryl)? That the frat boys in the fancy foreign car had a healthy stash of pot in their glovebox? It's just easier to say nothing and she wonders if by saying nothing she's helping him build this wall between them. She might not be the bricklayer but she's standing next to him, passing him one stone at a time and watching as he slides them home.

The sun's slowly beginning to set when they load their haul into the flat bed of Daryl's truck, and he surprised her when he loads the bike in along with what gas, meds and other supplies they've managed to siphon. They don't talk on the way back to the farm but this silence has a different timbre to before, a different kind of emptiness. He's sweating and breathing heavily, his hand resting on his side, but he brushes her helping hands away with a gruff, "I got it."

###

If Andrea thought that the highway was bad, she was not prepared for what awaits her when they return.

"Fort Benning!" She exclaims as she watches they sit around the campfire and take a tally of hands and opinions on their next move. Shane, it would seem, has been shooting his mouth off again and Glenn's noting it all down on a scrap of paper like they're actually still living in a democracy.

"It makes sense!" Shane counters, his tone as dark as the bruises that cover his nose and his eyes and Andrea wonders if he and Rick or he and Daryl or he and Dale have finally squared up to each other. There's a weariness to his tone now, as though he's saying the old arguments for the sake of the hearing-impaired or any new arrivals. He's been banging this drum for as long as she can remember. "We have to at least consider it."

"There's no 'we' in this situation, Shane." Dale says quietly, his gaze on the younger man and Andrea can't believe that it was less than forty-eight hours' earlier that they were conspiring in the RV against him.

"I don't see why!" Lori exclaims to Shane. "It's a long drive even without all this – and with what food, what gas, what meds?"

Andrea realises then that it's highly likely that Rick and Lori have no idea what Shane did to survive and bring them that respirator for Carl. She wonders if they'll even care, given the stakes. Well ... of course they'll care, but they won't _care_. They wouldn't trade Otis' life for Carl's, which is what the alternative would be. Something tells her that this is just the start of the moral accommodation they're going to have to do to survive this. Seen from that light, maybe Shane's actions weren't as crazy or as heartless as people like to think. Maybe he was just ahead of the curve.

Still, there's no way she's going anywhere with him ever again.

"Well we can't stay here." Shane says adamantly. "Not now, not after this. There were at least twelve walkers in that barn, not counting the ones we all stumbled across while we were looking for Sophia and that herd on the freeway not ten miles from here – hell, Lori, that subdivision me and Andrea found was crawlin' with em and that was less than twenty miles from here! You really think they ain't gonna smell us all at some point?" He glances from one member of the group to another, his mouth set in a firm, resolute line. "I know y'all think I'm a hard ass." He says. "I know that and I don't much care, because bein' soft ain't gonna keep us alive. Its gonna get us killed."

"But it's also going to keep us human." Dale counters softly. "If we lose sight of our empathy, our compassion, how are we any different from the walkers?"

"You think that old man, if ya like." Shane retorts. "Just spare me the lesson in human philosophy."

"How long you think its gonna take to get to Benning?" Daryl asks quietly. "What makes ya think its still there?"

Shane shrugs. "I don't know." He says honestly. "But we gotta figure that _something_ is left."

No-one wants to face the alternative.

"We aren't leaving." Rick says adamantly. "I can't speak for anyone else, but me and Lori, Carl and Carol aren't leaving."

Eyes turn to Carol, then, who nods once, her eyes so puffy Andrea's surprised she can even see out of them. "I can't leave Sophia." She says softly.

Shane shakes his head in exasperation. "That's your choice." He says finally. "But everyone else is going to have to decide for themselves what they want to do. Those of you who want to try for Fort Benning with me ... we'll leave by the end of the week. As long as it can take for us to scrounge up enough gas and supplies to get as clear from here as we can."

"I don't think it's a good idea to split up the group." Andrea says to Dale some time later, as she watches Shane and Daryl clean their weapons and check their ammunition. There's a wary kind of respect between the two men: they don't like each other but they're tolerant of the other's relative strengths. Plus, since the walkers are dead and Herschel's retreated into his house, it seems a little redundant to keep the weapons locked away.

She continues, her eyes on the two men sitting several feet apart in plastic garden chairs, in the shade of the RV. They're the two men who have arguably adapted best to the situation they're in, but for Andrea that's where the similarities stop. "Despite everything that's happened, what's happened with Shane, I don't think that it's a good idea to split us up."

Dale shrugs. "Shane's making us choose." He says finally. "And after everything, I think he'll be surprised at what decisions people make." He gives Andrea a carefully appraising glance. "Have you and Daryl decided what you're going to do?" He asks gently.

Andrea shrugs. "There isn't a 'me and Daryl.'" She says softly. "Or at least, I don't think there is. Not right now."

Dale shrugs then. "He's injured." He says softly. "He's taken what's happened to Sophia real hard. But he cares about you." He finished.

Andrea smiles bashfully. "I don't want to split up the group." She says finally. "I don't. But I think that as much as we don't want to hear it, Shane has a point. That suburb was full of them and it wasn't too far from here. I just think that we should head further south, or further west before we stop, get somewhere a little more depopulated. Because once the winter comes, things could get ugly."

Sometime later, she tries to ask Daryl. "What do you think?" She says as she watches him methodically clean his crossbow bolts. It's a good job he's so meticulous given how they're used to kill walkers and their food with equal tenacity.

He shrugs. "I don't think it's a good idea to split up the group, especially not with Shane in charge. Assumin' anyone would follow him after everythin'." He says honestly. "But I don't think stayin' here's the right answer, neither."

Andrea considers this before asking, "What are you going to do?"

Daryl shrugs again. "Thinkin' 'bout goin' to look for Merle." He says. "Didn't exactly try my hardest, did I?"

Andrea looks down and slowly slides into the seat next to him. "Are we ever going to talk about this?" She says softly.

His eyes darken but he doesn't stop his work. "'bout what?" He asks harshly.

"About the fact that you blame yourself for Sophia for getting bit." She says. She can do blunt too; after all, she learned it from him. "That you feel responsible for her. That you want to go off and find Merle to somehow make it right that you couldn't help Sophia." She jumps when he stands up so fast he knocks his cleaning solution all over the table.

"Get out of my head." He snaps as he searches for a rag. "You ain't a shrink, last time I checked."

"No, but I am someone who's worried about you." Andrea counters as the pair began to mop up the mess Daryl's made. "I am someone who held you when you cried about his. I am _someone_ to you!"

"I'm fine." Daryl snaps, his eyes raging violet when she mentions him crying.

"No, you're not." Andrea says softly, reaching to cover his hand with hers and trying not to flinch when he tugs his hand away and glowers at her. "You are not fine, Daryl. Now if you need to be sad, or mad, or happy or angry or whatever, then just do it. Don't go off on some half-assed rescue mission when you don't even know where Merle's gone. You're going to get yourself killed."

"Thanks for the advice." He almost snarls, returning to his task.

She stares at him for a long moment, wondering what to do. Eventually, she stands up and leaves him be. He'll come around when he's ready. If he ever gets to 'ready'.

As she lies in bed later that night, listening to the never-ending cycle of Carol's crying and Lori and Shane and Lori and Rick's arguments, Andrea's beginning to wonder if Daryl ever thought to include a door when he built that wall of his. Won't people need to go through it, eventually? Won't he need to come out? Or is he planning on retreating behind it forever, leaving her to bang on the bricks and try to find a way in while he watches from the ramparts?

She's just dozing off when his voice slices through her grogginess. "I should have done more." He says, and when Andrea opens her eyes he's sat at the foot of her bed, his crossbow leaning against his leg. He looks tired and drained and his eyes pin her to her bed. "For one of the first times in my life, I wanted to help someone, to bring her back to her momma." He swallows then and looks down. "When I was lost as a kid, all I wanted was my momma." He says. "But ... not the mom I had. I wanted her to be ... more than she was. More like Carol, I guess. A momma who loves her kids, who deserves to have her kid found. I wanted to find her, make sure she was safe. Make sure she knew someone was lookin' for her."

He gives her a look that could be apologetic, if she looked at it the right way. "I ain't never done this before." He says, gesturing to the space between them. "I mean, I have but ... not like this." He says honestly.

"I know." Andrea says softly. And somehow, she does know. Or at least, she knows what he means. "You don't have to tell me about it now, if you don't want to."

He looks inordinately relieved at that. "Sorry I woke ya." He says. "I just ... after last night I didn't want ya to think I was just tryin' to get in your pants."

"I know. I didn't." She gestures to the space next to her. "You tired?" She asks hopefully.

He strips down before sliding into the space next to her, his skin warm and damp and alive as it brushes against his. They manoeuvre awkwardly for a few minutes until they're both comfortable in the small space, Andrea's head resting on Daryl's shoulder. To her immense surprise, his arm slides around her shoulders, his hand threaded through her hair. She's sure she feels his lips gently press against her temple. His heartbeat slows down to a steady rhythm. He's relaxed. Or as relaxed as he's going to get.

They lie together for some time, listening to the crickets and the gentle wind whistling through the camp. "I don't want to stay here." Andrea says into the quiet, still night. "Not after yesterday."

"Be hard, on the road." Daryl says, his voice throaty and groggy with drowsiness.

"Which is why I think we should move before fall comes."

His hand gently brushes against her shoulder, his thumb hooking under the strap on her bra, feeling the skin there. His thumbs are rough and calloused but his touch is gentle. "You wanna go to Benning?" He asks softly.

"No. Hell, no." She says emphatically.

"Good. Me neither."

"But I don't want to split up the group. I don't think its a good idea. I ... I don't think its what Amy would want, either."

"So what do you wanna do?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

He tilts her chin upwards and kisses her once, twice, three times, growling into her mouth at the last one. "I wanna stop talkin'" He says softly.

Its different this time. It's not atop his brother's motorcycle, for one, and its less maudlin but no less emotionally charged. It's rough and long and hard and Andrea wonders if this is the only way he can think of to show her that while the wall exists, there's a door there now.

TBC ...


	19. Grief and Lost Children

Grief and Lost Children.

Andrea realises that Sophia isn't the only lost child among their group.

Thanks so much for the reviews guys, I'm glad you're enjoying this fic. I was pleased with the last chapter – probably my favourite of the lot to date, except for I Have Never and A Question of Ownership, both of which were so much fun to write. And I'm totally aware that there's a blatant gender disparity in these fics. Oh well. Call it payback for the ENDLESS amounts of washing these women seem to do in this show. But that isn't really Daryl's fault, so it's not fair to take it out on him. I promise I'll write more from Daryl's point of view!

Also, anyone here know of any good TWD fansites? If anyone knows of any, or is a member of one that they like, then do let me know. Unless y'all think we should start our own ... I'd be game for that. I don't know anything about making a site but I'd happily be co-admin or something. Let me know if anyone wants to conspire with me ...

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my imagination.

###

One of the things Andrea's realised since the world went to hell is that their language and rituals of grief have changed. Or rather, they've been blown apart, irrevocably shattered with nothing to replace them but transitory prayers over hastily-filled graves. People are in a perpetual state of mourning: for their dead, for their old lives, for everything that came before. Only this time their dead are clawing at them with mottled hands and decaying skin or are thrown into quick, imprecise graves with their skulls smashed in, the earth still damp and fresh as they drive away from the graves of what family and friends they're still able to bury, those hasty mounds and crosses never to be revisited except in memories of a backwards glance out of a car's rear window.

Carl, she's willing to bet, hasn't had to make that adjustment quite yet. To be sure, he's had his world been turned upside down, lost people close to him, almost lost himself. But she's willing to bet that he's just too young to truly appreciate the rituals of grief that humanity had adopted: the regular grave visits, the flowers, the mourning. He can appreciate it, to be sure, but its different to the others, the older ones, those who lost people before. He doesn't know what it is to drive away from the grave of a loved one and know that you'll never visit them again. She's done it, Carol's done it, the others have all done it. Except Daryl, but that's a whole different kind of grief that he's carrying around.

But Carl ... Carl hasn't. And so as she sees Carl sat at Sophia's grave, lovingly touching the ill-fashioned cross that sits at the head of the too-small mound just off from the Greene property, she wonders how he thinks about grief and mourning, how he's coping with Sophia's absence and death.

Andrea hadn't meant to eavesdrop, she really hadn't. But Lori had asked her to keep an eye on Carl while she stepped away and in true Andrea fashion, she'd turned her back for a moment and he was gone. For a moment there's a flash of white-hot panic as she realises that she might have lost Lori's son until she realises that she really needed have worried. She only needs to give it a fraction of thought before she guesses where he'll be. Only this time, he has company. And as she approaches the young man sat cross-legged, and the man-boy approaching the too-small mound of earth, she realises that Sophia isn't the only lost child among their group.

To be sure, they're all lost children, it's just now their playgrounds are bigger and their parents aren't here to protect them and a Disney band-aid isn't a sure fire way to solve all of life's problems. They all have those moments where they want to hide from the monsters under the bed. Sophia's lost to them now, crossed over to whatever it is that lies beyond this world. If Andrea was a god-fearing woman, she'd say that Sophia has gone to heaven, that she's no longer lingering in this purgatory or the next. The other part of her can't believe that any god would visit this upon the subjects he or she created. So she just says that Sophia's with Amy and they're both at peace because if she thinks about it anymore then she might start crying and never stop.

But Carl's lost in another way. He's the only child in their group now, lost amongst a realm of adult worlds and words that he knows but doesn't fully understand. He's lost his friend, his companion, the one person who was his peer. He's now an island of youth amid a sea of adults.

But there's another lost child among their group, another little boy who wandered out into the forest one day and probably never really came back. He's grown up and he's matured and he's tough, tougher than anyone else she knows and tougher than anyone really should be, but he's still a child sometimes, and as she approaches the two men-boys who now sit together in silent mourning for their friend, she feels her heart ache for the three lost souls in their group.

She hadn't meant to eavesdrop.

"Hey there, little man." Daryl says as she watches him drop down next to Carl, their knees separated by three or four inches of wet, sticky air.

"Hey." Carl sounds subdued. He's a slight kid, she can see both Lori and Rick's slenderness in his shoulders and long torso, and he looks like a doll next to the robust, older man who drops down into an easy sitting-position, his ever-present crossbow next to him.

Daryl doesn't say any more. He isn't one for idle chatter anyway and this moment seems particularly redundant. Andrea wonders who he's lost in his life, how he internalises and deals with grief. How he's dealt with the uncertainty about Merle. Does he keep it all locked behind that wall he's built around himself? What with his grief about Sophia and Merle and his general anger at the world, she figures that life behind that wall must be pretty crowded. She's through the door now, only to find herself in the foyer of a large house of endless corridors and rooms that branch out like a maze. She knew he wouldn't make it easy for her. So she slowly explores these rooms of words and actions, tentatively moving through the next layer of Daryl's shield, searching for the door to the next level.

It's Carl who breaks the silence. "Why did you look for Sophia so much?" He asks quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "You ... you don't like us." He says, and Andrea can tell from the movement of his hand that he's wiping away tears.

"Now _that's_ horseshit." Daryl says, although not unkindly. If anything, he sounds surprised although he really shouldn't be. Even when searching for Sophia he was separate from the group, off out in the forests, away from everyone else but emotionally distant, too. Only rarely would he open up and it certainly wasn't to anyone else in the group but her.

Carl's noticed it too. "Okay, you like Andrea then. I see how you look at her." The youngest Grimes says, his words so direct Andrea wonders if he's been taking his tips from Daryl. "You two sleep in the same tent now. You shouldn't hide it, y'know. Everyone knows. No-one cares."

Andrea bites her lip to stop from laughing at Carl's deadpan delivery. If the situation wasn't so tragic, it would be funny.

"You should mind your own business, little man." Daryl says archly.

"Why are you still here?" Carl returns to his original question. "Just ... dad says that you searched for Sophia all the time, that you nearly died trying to find her. I just ... I just want to know why." He says. "You don't seem to like any of us all that much. You shout all the time. You just ... I just wanna know."

Daryl moves to open his mouth before turning his head over his shoulder. "You might wanna step closer if you're gonna carry on spyin'." He says, his gaze meeting Andrea's.

She sighs. Busted. "Sorry." She says as she approaches them. "I just wanted to make sure that Carl was alright."

"I'm fine." Carl says simply. "Are you gonna sit down?"

Andrea moves to take a step forward before hesitating. Does she want to interrupt their conversation, their mutual grief over their lost friend? She doesn't know why Daryl searched as diligently as he did for Sophia, why he was so devastated by her death. She has her suspicions, of course, but she doesn't know. She wants to know. But she wants Daryl to tell her, not tell Carl while she's there.

So she shakes her head. "Just ... keep together, alright?" She says before leaving them alone.

###

Its afternoon when the pair finally come back to camp. They come out of the forest, sweaty and red-faced, walking in stride, Daryl's footfalls softer and slower than usual so the younger boy can keep up. Carl's carrying several squirrels by the tail, looking up at Daryl with an almost-admiring gaze.

"And where have you been?" Lori demands.

Again, Andrea doesn't mean to eavesdrop. But it isn't her fault that they're loud and having their conversation right next to her, and Shane's obviously eavesdropping so she figures that if Shane can get away with it then she can, too.

Carl's cheeks flush. "We were visiting Sophia and then Daryl took me hunting." He says, before immediately adding, "It was my idea. I told him you'd be okay with it." He's almost pleading that last part, clearly hoping that his mom doesn't begin bawling them both out.

Daryl gives Lori a sheepish stare. "Sorry." He says softly. "Didn' think to tell ya. Just kinda happened." His eyes flicker to Andrea's, meeting her gaze and she can feel her lips quirk upwards at his uncertainty. It's probably the first time he's ever thought to ask permission from anyone to just take off.

Lori's admonishments die on her lips when she sees the smile on her son's face. Its probably the first time since Sophia's death that he's smiled and if these past few days have proved anything, it's that Daryl will die to protect those he deems his charge. "Just don't let it happen again, alright?" She says, smiling softly when she gets two bobbing heads in response.

"Daryl says he's gonna show me how to skin these!" Carl says.

"If it's okay with you an' Rick." Daryl finishes quickly, his gaze flickering back to Lori.

Lori pulls her son into a hug and kisses the top of his head. "I guess." She says softly. Her warning clear in Daryl's eyes: be gentle with my son.

Daryl nods before gesturing to Carl. "C'mon." He says. "Let's cook us some stew!"

As Andrea watches the two men take a seat at a large tree stump, she realises that maybe the grief ritual that she's witnessing now is perhaps the most important and the most neglected of all: finding comfort in each other, and moving on. Their dead are dead, gone, not coming back. But they're all still here, with each other. And now, more than ever they need each other. They can't lose anyone else, not in a forest of trees or a forest of grief or a forest of anger. They can't be allowed to drift, to lose sight of what makes them human: their compassion for others, their empathy. Shane's right but he's also wrong, so, _so_ wrong. They need to make hard decisions but one of the hardest of all decisions is sticking together through thick and thin, being brave enough to share responsibilities and being as strong as their weakest link. They do need to wake up, not just to their precarious situations but to each other. They need to wake up to the fact that in the midst of all the death, they're alive. And while she knows that they have to be harder and tougher than Rick, they can't all become as hard as Shane. They have to find a middle ground, a path that allows them to take the best of each.

###

"Why didn't you stay?" He asks later that night, his voice husky from sex and lack of sleep and muffled by her hair. His arm's heavy across her stomach, sweat trickling down her back from where his body's pressed into hers.

"What?" She mumbles, barely awake herself.

"Before." His voice is soft but insistent. "At Sophia's grave. Why didn't you stay? I knew you wanted to; you'd never have hung around if ya didn't."

"... Because you were telling Carl and not me." She says at length. "I figured you'd tell me, eventually."

He seems to digest this before speaking again. "You did, huh."

"Yeah."

Silence fills the hot wet air around them then, so quiet that Andrea's convinced that he's fallen asleep until he speaks again. "Kid's pretty good at skinnin' squirrels." He murmurs.

Andrea sighs softly, exhaling a breath that she didn't know she had been holding. "That's good, I guess." She says, smiling softly. Maybe she's found the door to the next level.

"Damned right it is. Kid's gonna need to learn how to do it when I ain't around."

"Guess so."

There's more silence then, until Daryl speaks. "None of 'em know how to take care of themselves." He says quietly.

He's stating a fact but he's saying more than that, saying with one fact another fact that he'd never say out loud: he doesn't want to leave the group. He can't leave the group, can't abandon them like he feels he did with Merle, can't fail them like he feels he did with Sophia. She may not fully understand his reasoning but she's content to wait for the reasons to come from his own mouth rather than her hypotheses. She's found the door now, after all. And she's happy to wait until she either finds the key herself, or he unlocks it from the other side.

Andrea sighs and takes his hand, brushing her fingers along the knuckles. She can play his game, too. "I know." She says softly. Maybe they're all a little less lost now.

TBC ...


	20. Panic

Panic

So I went on a little hiatus. I'm sorry, I really am. I just ... I have all these ideas and they swirl around and bump around in my brain (all that vacant space up there, LOL) but then I have these periods where I just cannot get the words down on the page. Plus ... I took the plunge and started my own zombie novel. So I took a break. But now I hope I'll be back for a little while, if not for good.

Poll time: How many people are missing Fridays (if you're in the UK) or Sundays (if you're in the US)? How many of you guys miss TWD a LOT MORE than you thought you would? How many of you itch to re-watch S1 and S2 for the umpteenth time? How many of you are praying that they don't put Andrea and Shane together? For me, it's not just because I want Andrea and Daryl to get together (even if they just stay friends with great chemistry, I'd probably be okay with that because that's what fanfic's for!) but I just don't think that either Carol or Shane are particularly good (even in this situation where pickings are slim) romantic partners for either Daryl or Andrea, Shane least of all. But that's a discussion for a whole other thread.

This one isn't terribly Christmassy, but I got a bottle of my favourite perfume for Christmas and inspiration can strike in the strangest of places. And I'm stepping away from the AN now ... But there is a Christmas one in the works, I promise.

Disclaimer: I own nothing save for some LOVELY Christmas presents. My bro bought me a glow-in-the-dark zombie tee for Christmas. Best brother EVER. I should take a pic and post it on our LJ community, which you should all check out if you haven't already done so!

###

It's not the walkers that bring out a sudden rush of panic. It's not the fear at the very real prospect that Lori's pregnancy may have placed them in an impossible position. It's not that they're running out of bullets or that winter is coming which means that hunting will be harder and no-one has thought to start either stockpiling food or fortifying the house they've found lest they're stuck here for winter. It's not Carol's well-meaning attempts to mother him, or the fact that he and Andrea have started sharing a bed every night now and the others know and no-one has said anything. It's none of that.

It's a bottle of perfume.

It takes blood, sweat and tears in the figurative and literal senses of the words, but they finally leave the Greene farm.

In the end, Shane was right: everyone did need to make a choice, to decide whether to stay or to go. The only difference was that while Shane was right, he was also wrong in offering them such a black and white choice. As is becoming increasingly the norm, its Daryl, Rick and Andrea who manage to find a mutually agreeable compromise: they will leave only if they have somewhere else to go to. No more running, no more miles of open highway. In a world of nothing but death and running and fear they are going to make a stand. They're going to try to start living again.

Daryl tells himself that it's a good idea so many times that he even starts to believe it.

It takes a lot of work and gas that they don't have, but after nearly two weeks' of fruitless searching, they find what they've been looking for.

This farmhouse is bigger than the Greene place, and deeper into rural Georgia. Not even Daryl's tracked this far before. It's got less land but is far enough away from the cities and the highway that the walkers haven't managed to fully penetrate it and it hasn't been decimated by looters, either.

There's no sign of the previous owners, and there's no barn. Under the circumstances, it's as close to ideal as they're going to get. So they put it to a vote. Anyone who wants to go to Benning is welcome to go with Shane but they're to go in his car and pillage the highway themselves for gas and supplies. The others are welcome to either strike out on their own or follow Rick and Lori to the new farmhouse. In a world of shit choices, this choice doesn't sound so bad. In fact, Daryl thinks as he casts an eye over Lori's still-flat stomach, it might actually be a pretty good choice. Their decision-making skills haven't exactly been stellar recently but this one might actually work. For some of them, at least.

One by one, they pick sides.

Shane stands by his hideous green Hyundai, his expression resolute.

Rick, Lori and Carl stand by the RV, flanked by Dale and Andrea, Daryl pacing behind them like a caged animal, shooting murderous glances at Shane every few minutes. Personally he's waiting for an excuse to kick the shit out of Shane in a way that's got everything and nothing to do with Andrea and Otis, but he's discovering that when it comes to some things, he's a patient man. All other things considered, they still need Shane. But they won't always, and he's content to wait.

Glenn and (to Daryl's immense surprise) Maggie line up with the Grimes family, soon followed by T-Dog.

Soon, only Carol is left alone, standing between her daughter's grave and her makeshift family. Everyone holds their breath.

Eventually, she shakes her head. "I can't leave her alone again." She said softly.

Rick exhales slowly and deeply. He must be able to understand Carol's pain, but as always, he's focused on doing the right thing rather than the best thing and in this world the two aren't mutually exclusive. "I understand that." He says, guilt threading through his words. "Believe me, I get that. But Carol ... you can't stay here. It isn't safe. And we need to stick together."

Carol seems to consider this. Eventually, she says, "Will we be able to come back here, to visit her?" She asks tentatively.

Daryl watches Rick's jaw bunch, once again torn between saying what's right and what's best. He knows as well as Rick (and probably Carol, if she was honest with herself) does that in all likelihood they'll never come back here again. Even Maggie, who's voluntarily abandoning her entire family for a boy she's known for less than a month, knows that when she says goodbye to her father, it's probably _goodbye_. But Daryl also knows that there's no way Carol will come with them unless she thinks that she'll be able to come and visit her daughter.

Eventually, Rick answers and when he does, his voice is stronger and his words are fuzzier than Daryl would have guessed. "I'm sure you will." He says.

Carol seems somewhat mollified by that; either that or she wakes up to the fact that the option she wants isn't available, and she nods once before shuffling over to Lori, who immediately slings an arm around her neck, her other arm on Carl's shoulder.

It doesn't take a mathematical genius to work out that if Shane wants to go to Benning then he'd best like the sound of his own voice.

If Shane looks surprised by the decision then he doesn't show it. He just gets in his car and heads back to the highway, but when they finally arrive at their new home several days later, weighed down by as many supplies as they could scavenge, Daryl isn't surprised to see the green Hyundai trailing behind the RV. He can't decide whether or not he thinks Shane's a coward. Is it braver to strike out on your own and push for what might be a pipe dream, or to stick around to watch your best friend and his wife birth and raise your baby while you can only watch from the sidelines, a spectator to a life that could have been yours and had been, for a little while? Daryl isn't sure but when he looks at Andrea and thinks about watching her raise a kid that's his with someone else, it makes him angry in a way he hasn't been for a long time. And they've only been doing whatever it is they're doing for a couple of weeks. Eventually, he closes that part of his brain off because not only is it making him angry, it's also making him empathise with Shane and that just isn't good for Daryl's zen. So he takes that thought and shoves it in a box marked 'Pipe Dreams,' tapes it closed and tucks it away in that long dark corridor of his mind with rows of floor to ceiling boxes on either side, sliding it right in there next to one box called 'Mamma,' another called 'Sophia,' and another called 'Own Business' and forgets about it for as long as he can.

As he predicted, the farmhouse is an immediate hit. After so long roughing it, the others are elated at the clean sheets, kitchen, living room and bathroom. The bedrooms are soon divided up, and someone – Glenn or Carol, probably – has dumped his and Andrea's stuff together in one room on the first floor of the house. It was obviously a family room before its owners hastily abandoned it, it's not big or small but big enough to accommodate a queen-sized bed along with what looks like an antique dresser and vanity station with a mirror. The floors are renovated wood, varnished to a high shine with a cosy red rug on the floor, soft white drapes at the large bay windows. It's directly over the kitchen and offers a glorious view of the southern part of the farmlands. There's an old, lovingly-restored rocker in the corner; Andrea talks about giving it to Lori and Rick for when the baby comes, a look of confusion crossing her face when Daryl adamantly refuses, grinding his teeth to stop the boxes in his head from exploding all over his brain.

It's the nicest room he's ever stayed in.

When he lies awake in bed that night, he can hear the crickets outside, moving in time with Andrea's gentle, ready breathing. With the curtains open the moonlight streaks through the open windows, gently bouncing off of her creamy white skin that he can't help but touch. It takes a while, but his hands and his mouth finally wake her and there's something to be said for sex between clean sheets bathed in the moonlight. When he wakes up early the next morning her head's nestled next to his, her skin scented with his sweat. The room's been warmed by the early morning fall sun and the white bedsheets spill half off the bed and onto the floor.

For the first time since the world ended (barring injury), Daryl doesn't get up with the sun. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to go hunting. He will later, for sure. But for today, for this one morning, he wants to lie in bed with his girl, watch the sun rise, smell himself on her body and make believe that perhaps all those hopes and dreams that fill the storage space in his head aren't so pipe-dreamish, after all.

As the days bleed into a week and then two weeks, Andrea offers to move her stuff out of 'their' room and into Carol's room, but he waves away her protestations, Carl's words echoing in his head. He does care about Andrea and people do know about them, plus its not like they'll spend every night together, not once patrols start. Plus ... as much as there's a part of him that's loath to admit it, waking up and finding her next to him is pretty fantastic. Sometimes he'll look at himself in the bathroom mirror and catch a whiff of her scent on his hands, or his face, or his chest, and he'll truly wonder just what she sees in him. But then he'll remember slow dancing to sad country tunes, nonexistent chatter in his truck, 'I have never been lonely,' entreaties not to leave, and her soft voice as she talked about that book about veils and paintings, and he'll smile, actually smile.

Which is what makes his panic all the more panicked and unexpected. And embarrassing, when he considers that it was a bottle of perfume rather than a walker which made his heart race and his palms slick with sweat.

Its dusk, he's just come back from hunting and is covered in dirt and grime and is bone-weary when he steps into their bedroom to find her sat at the vanity bureau in one of his shirts, gently sniffing the bottle of perfume that has been there since they arrived and obviously belonged to one of the ladies of the house. She's got her eyes closed, her head leaning forwards as she inhaled whatever scent's still inside the bottle and she's smiling in that way she has when she's in a certain frame of mind. Its lazy, relaxed, almost playful. He's seeing it more and more now, usually their hair is sweaty and their bodies conjoined and she's gently teasing him with her tongue. But it's a smile she keeps only for him, and now, for this bottle of perfume. He's prepared to bet that she's remembering. Memories are jolted by senses, after all and smell is one of the most potent, the one most likely to release a memory whether it be good or bad. Being here, with him in this place, it's too easy to forget what's happened, what's still happening around them, what could happen. It's wrapping them all in a protective cocoon where they forget just what a perilous situation they're in. Even he, Daryl Dixon, can feel it happening to him. He can feel himself relaxing for the first time in his life. Everything that happened before feels a long way away, and how could it not when surrounded by such serene, tranquil beauty?

His eyes drift around the room, around _their_ room, seeing the personal touches that they (she) has added since their arrival. A picture of Daryl drawn by Carl's childish hand, nothing more than a stick figure with brown hair, big blue eyes and a crossbow but carefully placed on the vanity with pride of place. Flowers from the garden in an old beer bottle. Her few remaining personal items littering the vanity. At some point during the day she's pulled the old rocking chair into their bay window, probably so she can watch the land outside, but there's something open on the seat: a photograph album. The pictures are old and sepia-coloured, full of people he doesn't recognise. It's all ... normal. But not a normal that he's ever known. His kind of normal doesn't involve clean sheets and nice girls who are still there when you wake up and they certainly don't involve soft smiles invoked by fancy scent bottles.

Merle's voice ricochets around his mind, a hodgepodge of _you're nothing, no-one's gonna care about you but me, you're their bitch now, they'll scrape you off their shoes like you was dog shit, they're not your kin, not your blood. _

Merle, who's still out there somewhere.

If Merle could see him now, playing happy families like the Brady Bunch of the Zombie Apocalypse with a lawyer who probably wouldn't have looked at him twice if their paths hadn't crossed by happenstance, he'd kick the shit out of him and tell him that he's a pussy, just like he always knew he was. "Spent my whole life tryin' to make a man outta you!" He can hear Merle shout now. "I thought you said you weren't no-one's bitch! Sure looks that way to me now, little brother!"

It hits him like an avalanche, then, an avalanche of panic and ground-shifting clarity. It's so clear to him now that he doesn't understand why he deluded himself for so long, why he didn't see it long before. He doesn't belong here, not this new normal they're fashioning in this place. He doesn't belong in the world Andrea's remembering, the one she longs for when she looks at the photo albums and sits in that rocking chair, the one she smells when she presses her nose to that bottle. He doesn't belong here, and he was a fool to think he ever would.

And he panics. No, not panics: he full-on freaks out.

She jumps when she hears his footfalls and senses him behind her. "You scared me!" She exclaims, fumbling to return the bottle of scent to its rightful place on the vanity, as though she's been caught doing something she really shouldn't be doing. "Are you okay?" She asks, and he doesn't blame her because he can see his own reflection in the vanity mirror. He looks like that deer he shot just this afternoon, just as the animal saw him with his crossbow poised and realised that its end was near. "Daryl?" She asks, repeating his name once, twice, three times before he eventually replies.

"Yeah." He says, his gaze straying to the pictures in the album, suddenly drowning in feelings of not-belonging. He shouldn't be here, not in this new world that she's creating, a world where there's hope for pictures to put into albums and hope for times when perfume is called for.

Andrea follows his gaze to the album and a blush spreads up her cheeks. "I found it in the drawer." She says almost guiltily. "I feel bad for just throwing it away so I started looking at it." She stands up then, real concern in her eyes. "What's wrong?" She says, her voice harder this time. She's reaching for her gun, clearly believing that there's something wrong that isn't going on in his head.

He backs away from her, away from the vanity with the treacherous bottle of scent, the end of the bed banging into his thigh as he backs out of the room, hands held up in mock surrender. He feels like he can't breathe, like something's suffocating him, pressing on him. Not until he's out of the house and in the still-warm fields does he feel as though he can breathe again.

That's the first night he pitches the tent and sleeps outside (under their room, of course). His bedroll is thin and the ground is lumpy and the tent smells like male sweat and dirty socks rather than Andrea and clean sheets, but he doesn't mind. In fact, it's exactly what he wants. Its familiar, comforting. Reminds him of the times when he was needed and valued. If they stay here, slip back into the lives they all lived before this, the ones they all yearn for, where does that leave him? Will Rick go back to being the Sheriff and Andrea a lawyer? Does that mean he has to go back to being the angry piece of white trash?

He doesn't know what's panicked him more: that those old patterns might reassert themselves, or that he doesn't want to go back, that he doesn't think he can go back, not without another storage unit full of shelves all full of boxes called 'Andrea.'

It doesn't change the fact that he's uncomfortable and the tent stinks and he feels like he's missing something. Someone.

She hasn't tried to follow him. In a way he wishes that she had. It would mean that she doesn't know him, that she hadn't seen that he had freaked out. Her not following means that she understands that he's freaking out. He would have preferred her to follow him, to demand an explanation that he wouldn't be able to give her. It would show that she doesn't understand him, that she's pushing him, that she'd give him an excuse to blow his top and act like the asshole that they all think he still is.

He doesn't sleep at all that night and is up before dawn the next day, foul-tempered and hungry and nursing a sore back. Merle would say that it's just another example of how he's gone soft. "Used to be a time when you'd spend every night asleep under the stars with nothing but the shirt on your back, little brother." He can hear his big brother jeer. "Now ya can't sleep if ya don't got fancy sheets and a warm body wrapped around ya."

He's in the nearby woods with nothing but water and jerky to sustain him and can feel his anger and panic subside the further away from the farmhouse he gets, Merle's voice slowly fading to a whisper. By the time he reaches a fast-moving stream some ten miles away, he can't help but wonder why he was as freaked out as he was. As Andrea and Dale remind him, they're all different now. Their lives are different. They've all changed, him perhaps most of all. He's been so worried about getting soft, about losing his edge, about not being able to find Sophia, but he's forgetting that he's also managed to play his part in keeping everyone else alive. He's forgetting that there was once a time when even he wanted to stop running and catch his breath. He's forgetting that he wants things to work with Andrea, even if they haven't defined just what they're doing. And if he wants it to work, then he needs to tell her that he's panicking, rather than just panic. He needs to tell her about the storage space with the boxes. Maybe not now, because he doesn't think that he could find the words, but soon.

He's about to head back to their farmhouse when there's movement on the other side of the river bed. Immediately Daryl tenses, crossbow ready. He's come to know what walkers sound like, has learned the horrible shuffling sound they make. These sounds are too regular, too linear, too human to be a walker. But that's even worse in some ways. So like all good hunters, he waits for his prey to come to him.

There's four of them: two men, two women. Three of the four are obviously a family; Daryl can tell by the way their hands slide around the younger boy's shoulders as soon as they see him. The other woman stands separate from the group. She's got a shotgun in one hand, a mean-looking hunting knife in the other and a pistol tucked into her pants, and Daryl comes up short when he sees his own perpetually wary gaze mirrored in her brown eyes. Like him, she's seen too much of this new world and their old one.

"Y'all okay?" He asks from across the river.

"We're just looking for shelter." The man calls out.

"And food!" The little boy echoes, despite his mamma's protests.

"Can you help us any?" The other woman shouts. Like Daryl, her accent is strong and twangy. She sounds like a Georgia native and she's watching him with a coolly appraising stare.

Daryl doesn't lower the crossbow. "How many of there are ya?" He asks.

The woman shrugs impatiently. "As you see." She says, her eyes constantly moving, searching for walkers. Like him, she's finding it an effort to keep still.

"There were more of us." The mom says, sadness crossing her face.

"Where ya come from?" Daryl asks.

"Atlanta." The other woman says, before amending, "Well, more or less."

"What's your name, friend?" The guy calls out, the four of them moving into the water, closer to Daryl.

"Tell me yours first!" Daryl calls out, not moving. They all look harmless enough, but that's often naive and dangerous thinking. He holds his ground.

The man answers without hesitation. "I'm Jack, this is my boy Jack Jr. and my wife, Callie."

"I'm Jenna." The other girl says, before adding. "Come on, country boy." She says impatiently. "Ain't like your name's gonna be a state secret. Anyone important's already dead, anyways."

"Daryl." Daryl says gruffly as they cross the river and reach him. "Daryl Dixon."

The young boy looks to be no older than Carl, and he does look hungry, so Daryl shares his beef jerky with him, oblivious to the stares the other three are giving him until Jenna's voice cuts through any other thought processes that Daryl might have.

"You have an older brother?" She asks. "Mean sonovabitch called Merle?"

TBC ...


	21. Two's Company

Two's Company

Okay, gonna mix things up a little now, guys! Just a wee little, though! I mean, they're together now but it can't be all plain sailing, right? Not that it really has been up to this point, but ... maybe they need a little bit of an external shake-up! So they're going to have a few issues but don't worry: they will work through them and come out stronger on the other side!

The more I write this fic, the more I find its taking on all the qualities of a story arc, LOL! Not that that's a bad thing, but I think it's fairly safe to say that unless the AMC writers are planning on reading this and inserting it into the show, this is very firmly (and happily, I might add) in AU territory. But that's okay, right?

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

###

Comfortably perched in the large elm that overhangs the run-up to the house, Andrea's found the perfect watch position. From the flat, wide branch that has been her home and refuge these past few hours, she can see pretty much the whole property. The leaves provide both cover and shade, and she's got a bag of jerky and a bottle of water to sustain her. It's almost enough to keep her mind off the fact that Daryl slept in the tent last night and took off this morning without word or explanation.

She doesn't know what she's done wrong, so she concludes that she hasn't done anything wrong: he's just either freaking out or being an asshole about something. Either way, she's learned that it's better not to push. It sounds so passive, but it's just how he operates. He won't talk if she cajoles him and when he wants to talk he'll do it in his own good time.

In the old world, she wouldn't put up with this kind of shit. Not just because she knew that she didn't and still doesn't deserve the silent treatment, but the men she knew talked about their feelings and even if they didn't want to talk about it, they told you they didn't want to talk about it. They didn't just take off without word, warning or apology. Men in relationships, or decent ones, anyway, didn't do that. Aren't she and Daryl in a relationship, or are they still in the 'just sex' category? Have they ever been in that category?

Andrea grinds her teeth as she remembers that not only are they not in the old world anymore, but she chose this. Chose Daryl. She knew what he was like when she chose to recognise their mutual awareness of the other, when she let him kiss her, when she chose to tell him that sleeping with him would mean something, when she has willingly and quite happily made her bed with him during these past two weeks. This behaviour should not come as a surprise to her, and it doesn't. Its how he is, how he raised himself, all he knows how to be. She knows that she hadn't quite found the key to that wall that still there, and she did it anyway.

She had just hoped that the door wouldn't be slammed shut so hard in her face after so little time and when she's done nothing to deserve it.

As much as she knows that this is how he is, it doesn't change the fact that it still sucks and when he gets back, she's going to tell him.

Whenever that is.

Asshole.

The hours tick by at an agonisingly slow pace. Dale, Rick, Glenn, even Shane come out to offer her relief, all of which she declines. If she isn't standing watch, what is she going to do? Sit in the house with Carol and Lori and discuss birth plans? Watch Carol watching Carl with tears in her eyes? Sit in her (and Daryl's?) room, perched on that rocker and look at photographs of people that she doesn't know, couples who probably talked to each other and whose worst fears were nothing to what she's feeling now because Daryl hasn't come back yet?

She hates this, hates that he's taken off without telling her what's wrong. She hates that she let him walk off even though she knew it was the right thing to do. She hates that she's okay with him walking off. She hates not knowing if or when he'll be back and what kind of state he'll be in when he does. An image of Daryl through the scope of Dale's rifle flashes into her mind, his vest red with blood, his gait so walkerish that she was convinced that he was one of the undead. She never wants to see that sight again because she doesn't know if she'd be so unflinching this time.

Mainly, she hates feeling so helpless. So she keeps watch, eats her jerky and tries not to think about Daryl Dixon.

It works for a full five minutes until the forest begins to rustle and Andrea presses the rifle scope to her eye. Her breathing slows as she eases herself into the potential shot, her finger light on the trigger. She can feel Rick, Shane and Daryl's instructions flood through her mind as she watches the forest yield its wares. Through the scope of Dale's rifle, Andrea can see five figures moving towards the house. Four adults, one child. Three men, two women.

She recognises Daryl immediately; her treacherous heart skips a beat when she sees that familiar gait, the sleeveless shirts, the dirty blonde-brown hair, the crossbow slung over one shoulder that glistens with sweat (she can still remember what that sweat tastes like). He's backlit by the slowly setting sun, jagged stripes of red, orange and purple. His head's down, bobbing up and down every once in a while, listening to his companion talk. Andrea can't make out much about her save that she's of average height and build, has short brown hair and has a shotgun in her hand, a mean-looking hunting knife sheathed at her waist, the same way Daryl does. She's nodding and talking and he's nodding and talking back and then Daryl does something that sends a little trickle of fear and something that Andrea stubbornly refuses to categorise as jealousy down her spine.

He laughs. Actually throws his head back and laughs.

Andrea wants to shoot the bitch dead already.

She's at the house before they are. "We've got company!" She calls out as she descends the tree. "Daryl's with them – they're friendlies!" She isn't feeling particularly friendly towards them right now, but she knows that Daryl wouldn't have brought them back here if he thought they posed even a small threat. He wouldn't endanger the group like that. So that makes them friendlies, for now.

"How many?" Shane says, first out of the house, his shotgun in his hand. His eyes narrow as he obviously sees what Andrea saw through her rifle scope, and Andrea can feel his curious scrutiny burning through the side of her face. If he even dares say anything even vaguely approaching, 'I told you so,' then she might shoot him after she's shot the bitch walking with Daryl. He's got his mouth open, clearly ready to say something to her, but Rick's arrival on the front porch soon makes him think twice.

"What we got, Andrea?" He asks, pointedly ignoring Shane. Obviously he hasn't quite managed to forgive Shane for either sleeping with Lori or for possibly knocking her up.

Sometimes Andrea wonders which of the two men is the bigger emotional masochist: the one who has to watch his best friend and his wife raise what is most likely his child, or the man who believes his wife when she tells him that the baby growing inside of her is his when he knows that she's slept with his best friend.

But then, as she turns her head to watch the man she shares a bed with approach the house, she wonders if they're not all emotional masochists.

"Five, including Daryl." She says, recounting what information she knows, which admittedly isn't all that much. "Two men, two women, three adults and one child – a boy. Looks to be about Carl's age." She says.

"Another family?" Rick says, hope sparking in his eyes at the prospect of more parents and children. There's no denying that both Carl and Lori could use the company of another family, probably Rick, too. Shane will probably just see them as more mouths to feed, more people to be protected. He'd be right. They'd both be right.

"Looks that way." Shane says, his binoculars now at his eyes. He doesn't need them for long though, as the party has passed the RV and is moving towards the front porch, where Dale, Glenn, Maggie, Carol, Lori and Carl have now joined the others.

They're close enough that Andrea can see them with greater clarity. Everyone has that lean, haunted look in their eyes, the kind that comes from too long with too little food, water and sleep. The family seem particularly hungry, for food, for companionship, for civilisation. The woman, on the other hand, watches everyone with a wary gaze that Andrea's seen on Daryl's face since their paths first crossed all those months ago. She's holding the shotgun lightly in her hands, her whole body radiating tension. Like Daryl she's covered in sweat and dirt and as the others descend the steps she takes a step closer to the family she's travelled with, raising that shotgun a little higher in case her own group need protection.

Daryl makes introductions: Jack, Jack Jr., Callie and Jenna. "Found 'em out hunting." He says to Rick, who in true Grimes form immediately offers the figurative and literal hand of friendship, which Jack grasps in gratitude.

"Mighty glad to see another friendly face." Jack says gratefully as Rick draws them closer to the house, the others jostling to make introductions and offers of dinner and accommodation.

Eventually its only Andrea, Daryl and Jenna left in the front yard, Shane loitering on the porch, and Andrea's burning up under her own irrational jealousy and three sets of eyes on her. Eventually, and aware that her silence is bordering on rudeness (and that her folks taught her to never treat guests rudely, no matter how much you might want to shoot them for making your boyfriend laugh when he would rather sleep in a tent than with you), she gives Jenna a smile.

"I'm Andrea." She says finally, extending her hand.

"I know." The girl takes her hand after only a second's hesitation, her grip strong and girl and grimy with dirt. She tips her head at the male hunter next to her. "Daryl told me about you. I'm Jenna."

"Well ... welcome." Andrea says, withdrawing her hand and fighting the urge to flex her fingers. She's acutely aware of Daryl's gaze on the side of her head and figures that she should really acknowledge his existence. He can't know that she's pissed and doesn't quite know why. "Carol's made stew for dinner. There's enough for everyone." She says.

He nods, his eyes pinning her to the ground. He's doing that talking thing with his eyes again but this time she just doesn't know what he's trying to say and she doesn't know how to respond. "Went huntin', tried to find some deer." He says, as though those seven words are enough of an explanation for his flat-out crazy behaviour during the past twenty-four hours.

"Found us instead." Jenna says, giving Daryl a smile.

Andrea's mouth quirks upwards then, but there's no way she'd call her mouth movement a smile. _That's it? That's the explanation I get after just bailing? Are you serious?_ Aware that she's starting to internally rant, with is as unproductive as it is inappropriate, she grinds her teeth together and forces it all into a little box. Maybe she should think about building her own wall and give Daryl a taste of his own medicine. "Looks that way." She says eventually, before turning on her heel and walking into the house.

Their farmhouse is obviously used to having many people under its roof; the dining table is one of those extending tables that Andrea always swore she'd buy once she was married with kids and nieces and nephews, and it accommodates their four new arrivals with ease. There's stew and a few remaining tins of vegetables, plus a selection of canned fruits that the new arrivals have been saving and want to offer the group as a thank-you gift. As they eat, they share stories both good and bad: about each other, themselves and their misadventures in their worlds both old and new. The four new arrivals are almost drunk off of the hearty food, showers, clean clothes and the prospect of a proper night's rest in a proper bed, and words tumble out of their mouths as they talk about their experiences.

Jenna doesn't say much, but what she does say is enough to convince Andrea that somewhere, in another life, she and Daryl would have been perfect for each other. A former bartender from south Georgia, she grew up in a small backwater town with absent parents and a drunk older brother, mothered by a weird and wonderful collection of extended blood and non-blood kin. There was the uncle who taught her to fish, the quasi-brother who taught her to shoot, the aunt who taught her to trap and hunt ... eventually Andrea's heard enough, especially when she and Daryl begin talking about the land and wildlife surrounding their farm. In one way she knows its madness to bitch because this is the first person from the old world with whom Daryl can connect with. They have things in common, shared life and cultural experiences that the others just can't match. In another ... it's like being transported into one of those awful romcoms where the male lead's girlfriend meets his female best friend for the first time, and realises that they're perfect for each other, they just don't know it.

To add insult to injury, she's pretty too. Now that her hair is out of that tight ponytail, it skims her shoulders in thick brown waves, the clean shower revealing clear skin, sharp brown eyes and a lithe, lean figure encased in a pair of Lori's jeans and one of Andrea's shirts (because Andrea IS the bigger person). She's got lovely, even teeth and a laugh that's extremely rare but deep and throaty and eventually Andrea's so het up that she wants to throw what's left of her dinner all over her. It's like being back in high school and watching the popular girl, except she doubts that Jenna was the popular girl. In fact, if Andrea was to impartially listen to the girl, she'd see that all things considered, Jenna's actually pretty decent. To be sure, she's curt and brusque, but like Daryl she's a product of her upbringing. She was most definitely not part of the popular crowd.

Carol's already ventured upstairs to bed, so Andrea knows that she won't be rude if she just leaves. Tossing her napkin onto the table, she makes her excuses and leaves, the menagerie of voices drowning out the noise of her sneakers on the wooden steps. Not until she's locked the door behind her, stripped down to nothing and can feel the weight of the hot water beating down on the base of her neck does she feel her temper start to cool.

She doesn't know what she hates more: that she's being irrationally jealous, or that she knows she's being irrationally jealous and doesn't know how to stop it. Would she be acting like this if she didn't feel snubbed by Daryl's actions from the night before? Would she feel this way if he had opened up to her the way he's apparently opened up to Jenna? Would she perceive both Jenna and Daryl in this way if she didn't feel like every step with Daryl was a constant uphill struggle to just get something, _anything_ out of him?

She's so busy musing and her ears are so full of shampoo that she doesn't hear the bathroom door open and close, or hear someone in the room with her. Only when she feels warm, rough hands on her shoulder blades does she realise that she has company. Shrieking hysterically and rendered deaf and blind by the shampoo, Andrea kicks and struggles wildly, shrieking for help until someone shoves her face under the shower to wash away the shampoo.

"Goddammit!" Daryl shrieks as she continues struggling against him. "What the hell are ya doin'? Tryin' to get me killed!"

She can feel two sets of hands on her face then as they both try to wipe the shampoo and water out of her eyes, nose and mouth. When she finally opens her eyes, he's standing slightly behind her, leaning against the tiles, his hands light on her arms. "What are you doing in here?" She manages to splutter.

He gives her a lazy grin. "I'm takin' a shower." He says, moving his hands a little lower to gently skim her waist. "What's it look like?"

Andrea isn't quite sure how to answer that. Despite her anger, she can't help but feel her resolve weaken as her eyes slowly traverse his naked and now very wet and soapy body. Between them, the water's beginning to run a little muddy as it makes headway into the layer of grime and sweat that covers his body. She turns away, offering him her back, afraid of her own response. Bending her head slightly, she lets the shower head rinse away the rest of the shampoo in her hair.

When she feels his hands in her scalp she almost jumps again, her whole body tingling and trembling as his fingers begin to move through the wet strands, teasing the shampoo out of her hair. "Always wanted to do this." He murmurs into her ear.

Andrea keeps quiet, absolutely terrified to move or speak lest she say something that will break this unprecedented moment of Daryl-initiated intimacy. Despite everything that's happened to and between them, this is the closest they've ever been.

When his hands slide down her back and his forefinger caresses the length of her spine, only stopping at the top of her ass, she feels herself tremble. Finally, she finds her voice. "Where did you go last night?" She asks throatily.

"Had to clear my head." He says softly.

"Oh." She manages, squeaking slightly as his other hand drifts southwards, skimming her breast and her stomach, resting eventually on her hip. "Do you want to talk about it?" She asks, her voice rising several octaves higher when his hand continues its southwards descent.

He's quiet for so long that she's not sure if he's heard her. "I don't know." He says finally.

Andrea digests this. It's better than the expected, flat-out 'no' but still not the answer she was hoping for. But it's something, at least. She can work with something. "Are you going to sleep in the tent tonight?" She asks softly.

"Not unless you want me to." He says into her ear.

"Of course I don't want you to." Andrea says honestly. Physical reaction aside, they are going to talk about this as far as they're able. "But if you want to then don't feel obliged to stay on my account."

He opens his mouth to say something else but before he can, the water begins to run cold and there's a knock on the bathroom door, followed by Lori's voice. "Andrea? Daryl? Carl needs to use the bathroom!"

As Andrea kills the shower and reaches for her towel, she turns to him and gives him a glare which indicates the full force of her anger. "Don't ever just take off again and think that you can make it okay with a shower, okay?" She says frostily. "Not if you expect me to be here when you get back." When he doesn't say anything, she raises her eyebrows for emphasis. "I don't deserve this, Daryl." She says.

It's pretty hard to pull off angry when they're both naked, wet and standing in a cramped shower, but somehow, she manages it.

He meets her eyes when he says, "I know. And I'm, uh, y'know, sorry."

Later that night, they're both lying in bed on their stomachs, for the first time awake but barely touching, just watching each other. It's a disconcerting and strangely intimate position, but one that Daryl initiated. He wants to look at her while they're talking, apparently.

Only he hasn't said anything yet.

When he does speak, however, the words aren't exactly what Andrea was expecting.

"Jenna says she's seen Merle." He says softly.

_That's_ got Andrea's attention. "What?" She exclaims. "Alive?"

"Yeah."

"Recently?"

"Yeah."

Andrea digests this before asking the most obvious question. "Are you going to go look for him?" She asks, suddenly realising why he wanted to look at her when they talked.

His answer isn't what she was expecting. "I don't know." He says.

TBC ...


	22. The Ties that Bind

The Ties that Bind.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I just wrote this for fun and with no copyright infringement intended.

Author's note: I've been away forever, I know. RL has caught up in more ways than one but hopefully I'll be updating this semi-regularly. Not sure if I like this one or not, but its been sitting half-finished on my laptop for an age so I figured that I'd post it. Hope you enjoy!

###

"What exactly happened?" Rick asks for what must be the umpteenth time, his voice so infinitely patient and understanding that Andrea actually wants to punch him. Is it possible to be too understanding, too concerned about doing the right thing for everyone else that you forget what's right for yourself, for the people in your charge? Andrea never used to think so, back in the day when she was a crusading civil rights lawyer determined to find truth and justice. But that was then. And this is now. Now is a world of varying degrees of untruths mixed in with outright lies and unspoken words and questions and little girls that come out of the barn and tear what's left of the world asunder. She can too easily imagine what Rick was like in the old world but now his face, even as he talks seems just a blur of tired eyes and tired voices and even more tired words that ring hollow in Andrea's ears.

But that doesn't make her leave. She stays where she's standing, ramrod straight in front of a fireplace that has long since forgotten what its like to burn coal and wood. The wooden mantel is faded from being so long in the sun's glare and there are small dark streaks on the top from where picture frames once sat. A few were lying, smashed and broken when they entered the house. Most were missing, probably hastily snatched or flung in a bag when the world started to unravel seam by seam. It makes her think of her parents' old mantel, which told a visual story of her and Amy's lives from birth through to graduation and beyond, their lives catalogued in formal photographs of careful smiles and conservative clothes, peppered with occasional snaps of candid nights out and uncontrollable laughter that the camera just happened to see.

They're in their new home's living room a large, imposing room that is similar to the Greene living room but lacks the touches of home and comfort that had allowed them to slip into a pleasant fiction for longer than they should. The walls are white, like the drapes and the couch that lines the back walls. An antique-looking cupboard that fills the entirety of one back wall is all dark mahogany and old, warped glass and hides another treasure trove of pictures and dinnerware belonging to a family who left here in a hurry. There's a large dining table and several uncomfortable hard chairs, where Lori now sits ramrod straight, trying to focus on the conversation but her eyes are closed as though she's in pain. Andrea, Daryl and Jenna stand at the fireplace as Rick and Shane alternately pace in front of them, watching with wary eyes. The others, including three of their four new arrivals cluster around the large table, Carol handing out coffee and cookies like it's a PTA meeting. It's weird enough to feel normal.

Andrea's eyes dart to her left, where a man who has probably never known a mantel of carefully preserved photographs stands and listens to Jenna once more recount her tale of just how she stumbled across his older brother. It's the first time since Jenna and the others' arrival at camp that Andrea's seen Daryl standing still. He's obviously trying to control himself, though, because Andrea's impatience is mirrored on his face, Jenna's too. The former's probably wondering just what the hell they were doing still discussing the fact that his brother's alive and well and apparently still in Georgia, while the latter is probably pissed that she's been asked to explain and clarify the nature of her interactions with Merle Dixon yet again.

Andrea's got a little more time for Jenna now, for two reasons.

The first is that this morning they had something resembling a conversation. Jenna's actually a pretty decent person in a very Darylish way, gruff and damaged inside and out but trying to use this new world to become the person they couldn't be in the old one. As they talk, Andrea discovers that she was the last of the survivors that Daryl mentioned to Jenna during their trek back through the woods. At first she'd been a little offended until she really thought about it, and realised that it was probably the greatest compliment Daryl could have paid her: he'd held off telling Jenna about her until he was absolutely sure that he could trust Jenna with her.

Jenna had also wanted to apologise for the second reason, which was slightly less cerebral but infinitely more reassuring to Andrea.

Early that morning, disoriented by lack of sleep and new surroundings, Jenna had made a wrong turn and ended up toeing open the door to their bedroom, just as Daryl was showing Andrea just why making love as the sun rose was probably the best idea ever.

"Sorry, 'bout before." Jenna had mumbled to Andrea as the two women sat on the back porch with mugs full of lukewarm coffee. "Privacy kinda falls by the wayside with the end of the world."

"I hear that." Andrea says.

"So, uh ... you and Daryl, huh." Jenna says, and Andrea's not sure whether she's asking a question or stating a fact. She decides that its the former.

"Yeah." She says, fighting the smirk that threatens to cleave her mouth in two. Instead, she lets the smile break through but raises her coffee mug to her mouth. "Me and Daryl."

"Figured."

There's no evidence of that smile on Andrea's face now. Instead, she's listening as Daryl, Rick, Shane and Jenna discuss the possibility that Merle Dixon is alive and well and living in Georgia.

Jenna's clearly as exasperated as Andrea when she says, "I'll say it once more for those of ya who're hard of hearin'." She says, using her sharp hunting knife to disinterestedly trim her fingernails, a stray waste paper basket at her feet. "We were scouting a grocery store, 'bout ten, fifteen miles from here. Needed food, water, the usual. We were tryin' to get a case of water into the trunk of the car when walkers came at us. Jack got rid of the first one, the second one almost tore a piece off of his arm until it just … went down." She pauses then to only blow the nail slivers off of her nails and Andrea isn't sure who looks the most disgusted: Shane, Lori or Carol.

Her monologue continues. "When I turned around I find this guy holdin' Jack Jr., shotgun in his left hand. His right's just this bloody, burned stump. Half-expected him to pull out a hook to stick on the end."

"Merle always was a crack shot." Daryl says absently. "Even coked up or worse. Could hit a turkey between the eyes with one eye closed."

"So what happened next?" Rick presses, clearly not interested in Merle Dixon's shooting abilities.

Jenna shrugs lightly, as if she encounters mutilated rednecks in Georgia grocery stores overrun with the undead every day. "He looked drunk or worse, saw those kinda guys all the time back home when I worked bar. Knew that reasonin' with him was out." There's another pause, another blow on her nails. "I offered him the water for the kid."

Lori makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat at that as she tightens her grip on Carl.

"Then what happened?" Now its Shane's turn to press and Andrea marvels at Daryl's patience: only a few short weeks ago Jenna would have been dealing with a very different Daryl, an angry, throw-a-squirrel, ask-questions-later Daryl. Now …. He's almost content to let Jenna talk at her own pace, let Rick and Shane push for more information. While it's certainly an improvement on her ears (Daryl's voice tended to carry, even outside) she's not so sure it's an improvement on his disposition. The look on his face is eerily akin to the way he watches the deer he's about to kill through the head. It's the way he's watching both men and the woman in front of him. But then, he is a hunter after all, whether it's for deer, walkers or information.

Jenna shrugs. "He gave me the kid, honestly he looked so doped up I was surprised he could see straight. Didn't think anythin' else of it until the asshole wandered into our camp few days the followin' night."

"Watch your mouth." Daryl says shortly. It's the first words that Andrea's heard him speak since they left their bedroom this morning and his voice is tight with tension and … something. Guilt at leaving Merle? Anticipation at seeing his brother again? She isn't sure.

Shane shoots Daryl a warning glare, which the other man returns in equal measure, the two men staring each other down until Jenna makes a bored-sounding noise at the base of her throat and continues her narrative. "He was dehydrated, spaced outta his mind. Collapsed in our camp. Babbled a buncha shit in his sleep – 'bout you," She tips her head at Daryl before returning to Shane and Rick, "'bout some assholes handcuffing him to a roof."

"It was me." Rick says in answer to her obvious yet unspoken question.

"I dropped the key." T-Dog offers.

"He did mention something about an Officer Friendly." Jenna says, casting a glance over Rick's Sheriff's uniform.

"How long was he with you?" Rick asks.

Jenna shrugs. "Night and a bit, maybe more. Once he came back to earth he seemed okay, if you knew how to handle him."

"My brother don't take well to bein' 'handled.'" Daryl snaps

Jenna shrugs easily, as though Daryl's assessment matters little to her. "We, uh …." She stops then and tugs at her vest, her nails seemingly forgotten. It's the first time throughout the entire exchange that she's seemed uncomfortable, even skittish. Eventually she says, "How many other survivors have y'all encountered out on the road?"

"Not many." Rick says candidly. "Families, mostly. Some nurses and care staff in Atlanta."

Jenna laughs then but there's no mirth in it. "Well let me yell ya, Officer Friendly, not everyone out there are families and care staff. Some of 'em came across our camp …. There used to be more of us." She says finally. "By the time the dust had settled, Merle was gone. Bastard had taken our water, too." She adds finally.

There's silence for a few moments until everyone realises that Jenna's finished her narrative, and then all hell breaks loose.

Daryl's already made his decision. "Take me to where you last saw 'em." He says to Jenna, who shrugs.

"Your funeral." She says simply.

"Daryl, you can't just go off looking for Merle." Shane begins, but Daryl doesn't want to hear it.

"He's my brother!" He exclaims angrily.

"Yeah, your brother who abandoned you!" Shane retorts.

"I ain't leavin' him when I have a chance to find him!"

"Daryl, I get where you're coming from, but think about what you're doing." Rick says, his tone becoming more measured and rational as he sees the look on Daryl's face. "He's blood, kin – I get that. And you know that if we knew where Merle was then I would go and help you find him like we did in Atlanta. But we don't know where he is and if what Jenna is saying is right, then he's with the types of people who we do not want in our camp, assuming that he's still alive."

"And speakin' of Jenna," Shane said, returning his attention to the woman in front of them, "How do we know that we can trust her?"

Jenna's eyes narrow almost imperceptivity. "You're an asshole." She says flatly.

"I can vouch for Jenna!" Jack decides to chime in, then. "She's saved my family more times than I can count!"

Shane continues unabated. "How do we know that she isn't a spy for these guys?" He says, meeting Jenna and then Jack's gazes head-on. "How do we know they all aren't?"

"How dare you!" Callie chimes in in disgust.

"Shane-" Rick begins, but Shane quiets him down.

"No, Rick, there is no 'Shane' in this situation!" He says. "Daryl brings these people back to camp, we don't know anything about them, then she feeds us this sob story about Merle, knowing that we'd fall for it."

"Hey, you think I woulda brought these people back here if I thought they were a threat?" Daryl barks.

Shane glares at him resolutely. "I think she told you exactly what you wanted to hear about your good-for-nothing brother." He hisses, before adding, "I said it then and I'll say it now: going after Merle Dixon was a bad idea in Atlanta when we knew where he was. Now this girl wants us to go traipsin' into the woods to search for him when even if she's tellin' the truth, she doesn't know where he is? In reality, he's probably dead and this girl's probably a decoy for-"

Whatever he's about to say next is cut off as Jenna launches herself at Shane, all nails and teeth and frantic scratching. It takes Daryl and Rick to pull her off but not before she's made Shane's nose bleed all over again.

"Enough!" Rick says.

"You got that right!" Daryl says, scooping up his crossbow as he turns around, heading for the front door. "I'm gonna go find my brother!"

"Daryl – Daryl, wait!" Andrea says as she follows him out of the door.

"Shoulda done it back when he first went missin'. Daryl mutters, surprising her as he bypasses the front door and instead heads for the staircase leading to the bedrooms. "Shoulda gone and got him like I said I would."

"You know that was impossible." Andrea counters as she follows him into their bedroom and watches as he begins to search amongst his meagre belongings for items that have already been consigned to the past: backpack, spare crossbow bolts, a few other things. "You're not seriously thinking of going out there to look for him?" She says, folding her arms. "We're not even going to talk about it?"

"Ain't nothing to talk about." He says shortly.

"You said yourself that you didn't know what you were going to do about it." Andrea says, frantically trying to relive that conversation which happened in their bed only a few short hours ago. Now that bed, with its soft, still-rumpled sheets and pillows that absorbed their passion and their desire and keep unspoken promises and words locked beneath the cotton and the feathers, is littered with Daryl's wares. "We need to talk about this – Daryl!" She eventually shouts, her hand grabbing his as he's frantically moving items into his backpack.

"What?" He snaps irritably, and her eyes widen as she feels him frantically trembling beneath her skin. His face is angry, like the man he used to be when Merle was around, but his eyes tell a different story; of the child who wandered into the woods and never really came out again, the man who searched so hard for Sophia it nearly cost him his life, the man who lies next to her at night and tells her when he thinks that she's asleep that as long as he draws breath he'll never let anything harm her. His eyes show the man he's become since Merle went away, the man Andrea knows he is, deep down. Their camp think that its Rick who is the protector, the loyal family man, the man who tries to do the right thing all the time, but the more Andrea thinks about it, the more she realises that Daryl's that man, too. He's a protector, a loyal man who will do anything to protect this new family, the man who even now is trying to do what he thinks is the right thing because Merle's his brother, his blood, the one bit of true kin he has left in this world.

"Just talk to me." She murmurs eventually. "Tell me why you think that going after Merle is a good idea."

He's silent for a moment, his eyes darting everywhere but her eyes. "He's my brother." He says eventually.

"I know that." Andrea says gently, slackening her grip so that her fingers are just touching his skin rather than restraining him. "I know he's your brother, but does that mean that what you're planning is any more rational? What if it was me, wanting to go after Amy? Would you tell me that it was a good idea?"

"You really think you'd listen if it was Amy out there?" He counters.

They stare at each other long and hard then, Daryl's jaw bunching and relaxing as he tries and fails to find the words for her. Andrea knows that he's thinking of bolting, is thinking of walking out now to find Merle, but he isn't leaving. Instead, he's standing there, trying to do what she asks. Trying to talk to her.

"You were there for your sister." He says finally. "When she needed you. You …. You put her down." He says. "With Merle … I coulda tried to search for him more than I did but I didn't." He says. "With Sophia, I coulda-"

"Don't." Andrea says, pressing a finger to his lips to silence him. She isn't letting him to that to himself. "Don't you dare say that you didn't search for Sophia as hard as you could. You almost died for her, Daryl. Its just …. Is Merle worth dying over?"

"Thanks for the support." He snorts.

"You know I don't mean it like that." Andrea says before adding, "I don't want to lose you, Daryl." She says finally, watching the surprise etch its way across his face. "I don't want you to go out there on a fools' errand and get yourself killed or worse. I don't want to have to see you through the rifle lens and not be able to hesitate."

She jumps when his hand gently creeps up her neck to cup her jawline. Aside from the night before when he washed her hair for her, it's the tenderest gesture he's ever displayed. "I'll be back." He says softly.

###

"I said it before and I'll say it again: this is a bad idea." Shane says as their not-so-merry band watch Daryl and Jenna pack for their journey.

"I didn't ask ya then and I ain't askin' ya now, so save your breath." Daryl retorts, not bothering to turn around from his task as he fills up his truck's engine with gas siphoned from one of the cars abandoned in their farmhouse's garage, before putting what's left in the can into the flat bed along with some water and squirrel jerky. It's not much but it will be enough to survive on should things get ugly.

"As much as I hate to say it, I agree with Shane." Dale begins, but Daryl silences him with a glare before returning to his task. Andrea's nowhere to be seen. He tries not to think about what that means. She's pissed at him for going, that much he knows, but she asked him to talk more and he's trying and this is the thanks he gets? Maybe he should have just kept his trap shut, after all.

"Daryl, maybe you should stay here awhile, take some time, think things through-" Rick tries a more conciliatory approach.

It doesn't work. "No!" Daryl shouts, his temper finally breaking through the surface as he slams the gas can onto the flat bed for emphasis. "My brother's alive and he's out there and y'all want to sit and debate it like its some goddamned politics or somethin'! Well let me tell you somethin', Rick: he's my brother and I'm goin' after him – you ain't got no authority over me so don't think y'all can just order me to stay!"

"What about Andrea?" Lori tries a slightly different approach.

Daryl stares at Lori as though she's grown another head. "What about her?" He asks.

"You're just going to leave her here?" Lori asks, Carol nodding in agreement, her eyes full of tears the way they always are now.

"In case you ain't noticed, Andrea can take care of herself." Daryl snorts, as though he's laughing at Lori's suggestion that Andrea's somehow incapable. "Prob'ly better than most of you sorry pricks put together."

"You don't think she'll want to know that you're just taking off and leaving?" Lori tries again.

"Of course I know that he's leaving." Andrea says as she appears from nowhere, clutching a backpack and her pistol. "I'm coming with you." She says, slinging her backpack into the passenger seat of his blue truck.

Like the others, Jenna's eyes shoot into her hairline at that, but she says nothing and wisely keeps her distance, her attention focused on the map in front of her as she tries to work out the best route to her former camp.

Daryl shakes his head emphatically. "No way." He says. "Stay here. The group needs you more than we do."

Sensing trouble, the rest of the group melt away, clustering around Rick and Shane as the two men get into yet another heated discussion, their glances flickering to Daryl and Andrea every few seconds, as though they're their parents trying to decide on their punishment for breaking away from the group. He glares right back before taking Andrea's arm and gesturing that she move further away from the group and their prying eyes and ears.

Andrea clearly sees red at his rejection, for her mouth literally hangs open at his refusal. "Excuse me?" She says. "You don't want me to come? Are you serious?"

Daryl sighs. Clearly that didn't come out as he meant it to. "Ya know what I mean, Andrea." He says adamantly.

"No, I don't – clearly you're going to have to spell it out!" Andrea bites back. "You want to tell me why you're leaving me behind and going off into the woods with Jenna?"

"Ain't like that!" Daryl snaps. "This group needs you, needs someone who can shoot, to watch their backs while I'm gone."

"Oh, I see: so once more you go off into the forest and I stay here like an idiot?"

Daryl's already exasperated with this talking thing: why is it that the more they talk, the angrier they get? Wasn't talking supposed to stop arguments? Isn't that what all those stupid magazines were always saying? "Fine." He says eventually. "You wanna be pissed at me? Then be pissed at me. Just be pissed at me here rather than out there."

"And when are you coming back?" Andrea says. "_Are_ you coming back?"

"I'll be back when I've found Merle." Daryl says, busying himself with checking his crossbow and storing it in the passenger cab, next to his seat and the sawn-off shotgun he keeps there for close encounters. Truth be told, he isn't sure when he'll be back, but he won't leave his brother out there, not when there's a chance that he's alive.

"And what if he's dead?" Andrea says, following him. "What if he won't come back? What if you bring him back and all hell breaks loose? What if you find where he is and he asks you to stay?" She says finally.

The angry words die on Daryl's lips as he looks at the woman who has shared his bed for the past two weeks. To be sure, she looks angry and pissed as hell, but she also looks afraid, biting her lower lip so hard she'll bleed. He knows that she thinks he's hard to talk to, can tell by the look on her face when she looks at him sometimes, looks at him like she wants to shake him and scream at him the way people do when they can't quite get the other person to understand. He knows that she's finding doing whatever they're doing hard, but what she doesn't realise is that he's finding it hard, too. He's as frustrated with her talking as she is with his not talking, not when she always knows exactly what she wants to say and how to say it. And now all she can think about is that he might not come back to them, to her, either by accident or – worse – by choice.

He ignores the flash of pain that cuts at him at her implication that after everything that they've been through as a group and together, that he'd leave them – leave her – so willingly. That he'd leave their comfortable bed in the room with the drapes and the rocking chair and the scent bottles, that he'd abandon the fierce frantic kisses atop his motorcycle and slow dancing to sad country tunes and games of I Have Never and truck rides through the Georgia woods where talking is overrated.

"I'm comin' back." He replies emphatically, silence descending upon him for a few seconds as he finds the words he wants to use. "Andrea, I'm gonna come back but I need ya to stay here. I need ya to stay here because I cannot think about somethin' happenin' to you while I'm out there. Got it?"

Her eyes widen at that, at the implication that her being next to him might prove an unwelcome distraction, but she seems to finally get it: that not only does he need to do this, but he needs to do it alone, needs to search for his sole surviving blood relative alone.

###

Their parting is short: a short, passionate kiss through the truck's rolled-down window that Andrea doesn't mind who sees. It isn't like they're keeping things a secret. Jenna's head's still buried in her map but she gives Andrea a smile that's clearly meant to be reassuring but only makes the furore of emotions in her stomach tussle and pound at her insides. She can feel that this isn't a good idea for anyone concerned, but how can she ask Daryl not to search for his brother when there's a good chance that he's still alive and well?

"You keep it." Daryl says as she tries to press her beloved pistol into his grip. "Y'all will need it more." As she moves to pull away he grabs her arm, pulling her back, his voice low and soft and deep, the way she likes it, but this time it's as threaded with urgency as it is with intimacy. "The highway's about five miles west of here, opposite way to us." He says, his blue eyes boring into hers as he squeezes her arm with considerable force. "Road forks off just before the last exit, dirt road, can't see it from the highway. There's some old buildings, brickwork, abandoned stuff. It ain't much but it's hidden from the highway. Stumbled across it the other day while I was huntin'. Anything happens, you get there, however you can and you wait for me. Try to get the others to go with you, but _do not_ stay with the others if you think that it's dangerous, you got it?"

Andrea's startled by the intensity in his stare. "I got it." She says, not daring to look away lest she break the spell that he's casting with his eyes and his words and the intensity with which he speaks, the insistence that at all costs she keep herself safe.

Daryl's gaze flickers over her shoulder to the others, who have already said their goodbyes and are loitering on their front porch step, watching the blue truck and the woman half-leaning into it. "Watch out for Shane." He says. "Somethin's brewin' with him and Rick, has been for awhile. Whatever happens, do not go with Shane. Stay with Rick if ya can, or Dale. Do not go with Shane. Guy's a hairs' breadth from flat-out crazy."

Andrea gives him a sad smile. "Maybe you need to be crazy to survive this world." She says lightly. As much as her voice is playful, she's beginning to think that she's right.

"Not his kinda crazy." Daryl says darkly. "You got it? Dirt track, off the highway."

"Abandoned brick buildings, hidden from view." Andrea finishes. "I got it."

"Good."

The pair stare at each other for a long time, blue eyes entwined with blue-green ones. It's the first time since they started whatever they're doing that they've been parted and Andrea isn't sure what to do or say. Eventually she dips her head and says, "Just …. Come back, alright?"

He rolls his eyes. "Said I would, didn't I?"

She has to shield her eyes against the glare of the sun against the truck roof as he moves off from the farm, watching the blue truck until it's out of view and all that remains is a dust cloud kicked up on the dried-out grass and wilting apple trees.

"He'll be fine, Andrea." Dale says, his voice suddenly soothing at her side.

"I know." Andrea says. "I just …. I wish he didn't feel like he has to go."

Dale shrugs lightly, his lined face darkened by the time he's spent out of doors. "Blood's a funny thing." He says. "The ties that bind us can also tear us apart, make us so mad that we curse the day they were born. But when they need you, you'll move heaven and earth to help them."

"Merle doesn't deserve it." Andrea says sadly.

"I know." Dale says. "And I think that Daryl knows that too, or at least a part of him does. But Merle's his only family now."

"But what about us?" Andrea asks. _What about me?_

Dale watches her carefully for a minute. "He didn't want you to go, did he?" He says finally. "That's what your fight was about. You wanted to go with him and he didn't want you too."

Andrea's slight blush betrays her answer, so Dale continues. "He cares about you, Andrea." He says. "Cares enough to ask you to stay here where there are more of us and more guns and cars, where he won't feel like he has to protect you all the time. He cares about us, too."

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do." Dale says softly, slinging his arm around her shoulders as he watches the young blonde woman watch the now-empty road. "He didn't just ask you to stay behind so he didn't have to watch your back. He entrusted you to us, entrusted us to you. He trusts you to help protect us while we protect what he holds dear."

"I don't know about that." Andrea says softly as Dale gently leads her back into the house with promises of fresh apple juice from the orchard.

"Oh, I do." Dale says softly. "While blood ties are funny things, sometimes the ties that bind the strongest are the ones you make rather than the ones you're given."

TBC …..


	23. Search

Search

Disclaimer: I own nothing. But I also don't know how I'm going to survive without TWD until autumn. My Sunday nights feel irrevocably empty. Roll on autumn!

Also, I don't think its ever mentioned just how Merle and Daryl fell in with the group so I embellished a little bit. Hope that's okay.

###

Its getting cooler, Daryl reflects as he feels the Georgia air prickle the hairs on his left arm. Not cold, just … cooler. If they don't want to be caught outside during winter, they need to think about fortifying the house they've found, stockpiling food, provisions, ammo – anything they can get their hands on. They've been lucky, with the summer stretching on and on, but its lulled them into a false sense of security. The summer won't be here forever and fall is approaching faster than he would like.

"Any places round here ain't been picked clean?" He asks Jenna, half-turning to look at her even though she's oblivious to his scrutiny, her eyes torn between the map in her hand, the road through the window and the shotgun next to her seat.

"Maybe." She shrugs at length, taking her little finger between her teeth and gnawing on the nail. "Few malls nearby we could try. You wanna take a detour to get Andrea somethin' pretty?" She teases, but Daryl silences her with a dark look.

"Don' know if ya noticed but its gonna be winter pretty soon." He says.

"Not all of us get to sleep in fancy farmhouses every night." She says evenly. "So yeah: I noticed."

The pair glare at each other for several seconds until Daryl yanks hard on the steering wheel and pulls the truck to a stop in a nearby layby. "We gonna have a problem on this roadtrip?" He snaps, torn between staring at Jenna and their surroundings. Just because the forests seem quiet doesn't mean that they are. They've past three straggler walkers already and in his experience, one walker is never just one walker. It's a prelude to more and he doesn't want to get caught in the middle of them because Jenna's got an attitude problem.

Jenna shrugs. "You wanted to drive out here to look for your brother." She says almost airily. "You want me to just give ya directions like a GPS?"

Their glaring match is interrupted by a lone walker then, who has ambled out of the forest and into their path, heading right for them. Jenna's hand tightens on her shotgun but Daryl shakes his head, his hand closing over hers to stop its trajectory to the trigger. Aside from Andrea Jenna is the first woman that he's touched since this mess began, and her hands are slick with sweat and fiercely hot, the skin rougher than Andrea's. "Don't." He murmurs, putting the truck back into gear and passing it with ease. "We need to save the ammo for when we need it."

"That's the fourth straggler we've seen since we started on this road." Jenna says, turning around as they pass the walker, who began life as someone who needed to wear a suit for work and now drags a half-eaten leg along a dusty Georgia road, his shoes worn through to reveal bloodied toes and shredded socks that flap around as the walker moves

"Watch the roads for more." Daryl says, his eyes scanning their route. It's quiet: too quiet. There's no wind, no rustle of the leaves, no birds chirping. There's just silence. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, cold despite the relative warmth of the day. Its been two weeks since they saw any walkers and now they've seen four in the space of two hours. Anticipation festers in his stomach. They couldn't have been this lucky for this long without something around the corner.

Not for the first time that day he thinks about Andrea: what she's doing, if she's safe, if she's remembered his instructions. She's one of the most capable of their group, the one most likely to act if action is called for. But it doesn't change the fact that this is the first time since they started doing whatever it is that they're doing that they've been separated by something bigger than the woods shrouding their property. While he knows that she'll be fine and she's able to defend herself, he can't help feeling like he should be there with her. He fights the urge to turn the truck around and return to the relative safety of the camp.

Jenna seems to sense this, for she says, "He's probably not here." Her voice sounds too loud in the silent, still, hot truck. "Was awhile since we saw 'em and out here, you live longer than a day and you're doin' alright."

"My brother's the toughest sonovabitch I ever met." Daryl retorts. "He's alive."

Jenna indicates that he should take the next left. "Down there." She says, gesturing to the road that's scarcely more than a gravel trail. "'Bout five miles, should hit our camp site." She's silent for a minute until she speaks again. "Not everyone's indestructible now, Daryl." She says, her hands gently running the length and girth of the shotgun. "Everyone's just flesh and bone, soft. Killable. Real easy – seen it happen. All it takes is just one bite, one scratch and it don't matter whether you're the toughest sonovabitch in the whole world – you're dead. You could be a military superhero, a doctor, lawyer, a redneck bastard like us or an old man lying in bed waiting to die – we're all just walker bait."

"There a point to this little pep talk?" Daryl says dryly.

"My point is that Merle might well be dead." Jenna points out bluntly. "Or worse."

"Or he could be alive."

"Ya didn't strike me as such an optimist."

###

Daryl isn't quite sure what he thinks of Jenna as he watches her check and then double-check the clip for her handgun and the shells for her shotgun. He doesn't trust her, but he obviously trusts her enough to believe her story, bring them both out here and search for Merle.

He isn't sure whether its trust, or just the weight of familial obligation. Or guilt. Or both. He isn't sure why he's out here searching for a brother that he feels obliged to miss, why he's left the closest thing to family he's ever had to search for someone who didn't afford him the same courtesy when he had access to transportation and knew where the camp was. Is he trying to atone for something? Is he here to find something other than Merle?

Either way, its strong enough to drag him out here and abandon his truck half-hidden behind the forest and what had once been an old outhouse.

"We walk from here." She says, tucking the map into her backpack along with water, food and extra ammo.

Daryl shrugs, like its no big deal for him to abandon his truck by the side of the road and go traipsing through the woods with a woman he barely knows.

But when he thinks about it, isn't that what happened when he first fell in with the survivors he's with now? Its feels so long ago that he doesn't remember the specifics, only the faces: Carol and Ed Peletier, fighting like usual. He and Merle had heard them long before they had seen them; they were trying to change the tyre on their car. Of course, it hadn't just been Ed and Carol: they had come with Shane, Lori and Carl and later, Dale, Amy and Andrea and the others. And Sophia, of course, although Daryl doesn't think about her because when he does he sees her skin grey and unyielding and her eyes dark with permanent hunger and hears nothing but Carol's plaintive cries as she sees what her daughter has become. So he grabs his gear, checks that he has extra bolts for his bow and silently prays that wherever Merle is, that the miserable son of a bitch has a good explanation for why he stole their van in Atlanta and didn't try to find them.

"Let's go." He says, gesturing that she lead the way.

Jenna's no fool, of course. "Keepin' me in ya sight, huh?" She says as she leads them down a well-trodden trail. There's thick trees on either side, leaves and dirt tightly compacted on the floor and despite the chill in the air, Daryl can feel the sweat roll down his back.

"Can ya blame me?" He says honestly. "Story sounds mighty convenient."

She stops and glares at him. "So why are ya here?" She snaps. In her sturdy hiking boots she's almost as tall as him and looks just as strong. Like him she's sweating despite the chill and her hair is plastered to her face and neck in thick tendrils, the armpits and collar of her shirt damp and sticky. She smells pungent to Daryl, like an extreme version of her own scent. Its musky and feral, like one of the wild cats he used to see in the woods surrounding his hometown. It's an apt description of her, really. And (it hits him then) of him too. They both wear the scars of their old world as well as this new one, have a shared language of the past that speaks to their former lives and selves. It puts them together but sets them apart from their respective groups, and as Daryl stares at the robust, capable woman in front of him, the more that past feels awkward in his mouth. He looks and Jenna and thinks of how he used to be, and he thinks about Andrea and what he's become since everything happened, since Merle went missing and Sophia came out of the barn and he began to think that maybe this new world isn't so much of a nightmare as it is a new opportunity, if he's lucky.

He glares right back. "Best get movin' if we wanna find that camp." He says. "Unless ya wanna be stuck out here in the dark?"

Jenna narrows her eyes and stares at him, as though she's not quite sure what to say. Eventually, she turns around and readies her shotgun. "Been through worse." She mumbles, leading the way into the forest.

###

Jenna can feel Daryl's eyes on the back of her neck as they pick and thread their way through the forest that she had vacated only a short while ago. Its so quiet she can practically hear the way he's looking at her: he's checking her out, physically as well as mentally. Its not particularly sexual, the way he physically looks at her. Jenna isn't dumb – she knows that she's an attractive girl, but Daryl's not checking out her boobs or her ass. He's checking out her height, her weight, how much power she could put behind a punch, how long the stride is on her five foot eleven inches frame. He's checking her out as a potential enemy as well as an ally. He'd seemed warily trusting after their initial introductions, perhaps recognising in her a kindred spirit, just as she saw in him. She figures that he must trust her to a certain point: he's willingly come out here with her to search for a brother who might be dead and if everyone's experiences with Merle are to be believed, is probably better staying that way. He trusted her enough to tell her about his group, to take her and her group back to the farmhouse.

He trusted her enough to tell her about Andrea.

She smiles at the recent memory as she picks and threads her way through the trail. She had asked about the group he was with and he had proceeded to give a run-down of his companions which had been scarily accurate. "Rick's the leader, I guess. He's alright for a lawman. Shane …. Rick says they were partners before the world went to shit. He's …. He's hard, says the necessary thing. Not always right, though…" the list had continued until Jenna thought that he was done.

"So that's all of you?" She had said. "All eight of you?"

Daryl had opened his mouth to reply before closing it, pressing his lips together. "There's Andrea." He had finally replied. "She, uh … she's a lawyer from Florida. Lost her sister couple weeks back."

"Seems like everyone's lost someone." Jenna had said, watching Daryl's face as he talked a little more about Andrea: how she almost shot him, how she likes books from years ago that no-one really cares about anymore, how she can't drive his truck to save her life because she only ever drove a Benz before the world ended, a myriad of things that tumble haltingly from his mouth, interspersed with comments about the walkers, the farm they had been staying at and some crazy old man who kept walkers locked up in a barn like they could actually be cured. He's talking in that unconscious way people have when they're not used to talking about personal matters and all the words fall out of your mouth, in that way you have when you're completely hooked on someone else except you have no idea that you are.

Jenna isn't sure just what she was expecting when she met Andrea, but she certainly wasn't expecting the waifish, almost delicate-looking blonde that appeared outside the farmhouse wearing a straw hat and carrying a rifle. But as Andrea talked Jenna could see more of Daryl's Andrea in her: the smart, headstrong woman who would literally shoot first and ask questions later. She's attractive, even beautiful in a very competent, intelligent way, and watches Jenna the way all women do when they see another woman around their man: wary, feline, predatory. There's no words exchanged, but there doesn't need to be: _back off, he's mine_.

So now they're here, out in the middle of nowhere, searching for Daryl's older brother. She hadn't thought much of Merle when she met him, had been surprised when she found out that Daryl was his brother. Merle's a hulking brute of a man, or he was when she last saw him. His face is fleshy and weathered from too much bad living and loose women and his mean streak is a mile wide and barely concealed. Daryl's different to Merle. He's younger, for a start, and physically different, attractive beneath the layers of sweat and dirt. She saw him smile last night and it made him disarmingly good-looking. But its more than that. He looks alert and aggressive but not dangerous and Jenna isn't sure whether that's good or bad. Both of them look intimidating but only Merle looks downright mean and she wonders if Daryl's ever used that to his advantage.

There's subtle differences within the group, too, differences that are noticeable to her even in the short time that she's spent with them. While Daryl and Andrea are often together, Daryl seems like an outsider and Jenna can't help but speculate on what he was like before Merle disappeared. Maybe, like her, he's tried to use the end of the world to shave off the worst edges of himself, and keep the best. She can't help but wonder why he's searching for a brother who no-one but him wants found. She can't help but wonder what Daryl will do if and when he finds Merle.

Eventually, she decides to break the silence. "Ya decided what you'll do if ya find your brother?" She asks.

He pauses before saying, "'pends what state he's in, I guess. If he's dead, I'll bury him. If he's a walker, I'll shoot him. If he's alive, I'll bring him back."

"You think he'd come with you? You think you'd stay?"

He snorts in laughter. "Ya sound like Andrea."

"Ain't that somethin'." She's quiet then before asking. "So … you an' Andrea, huh?"

"What of it?" He asks testily. There's no noise behind her and as she turns around he's standing staring at her, a hostile expression on his face.

"Nothing." She says nonchalantly. "Just … she doesn't seem like your type."

"Ya don't know anythin' about me, or her." He barks, his hackles clearly up. "So don't go pretendin' like ya do."

"I didn' say that."

"Why, ya know what my type looks like?" He tips his chin at her, challenging her. "You nominatin' yourself?"

Jenna snorts. "You should be so lucky."

They begin walking again, with more urgency this time, and as they walk Jenna realises that in another life, in their old life, Daryl would have been exactly her type. Well …. Not her type, perhaps, but in her pool of supposedly eligible men and in her town there wasn't much difference between the two. And she would have been his, too: he would have come into her bar to drink away his sorrows and they would have probably fallen into … something because there was nothing else to do in their town and no-one else to do it with. And every few nights or so they would have woken tangled up a mess of sheets and sweaty limbs until one of them fell out of it, and then fell back into it because it was convenient. But now, as she steals a glance over her shoulder to catch the expression on Daryl's face, she wonders at him and Andrea. Would they have been together in their old life? Probably not. Did their circumstances throw them together and steadily close off other available options to them? Most likely. But does that make their relationship, or whatever it is, one of convenience? She doubts it, not if Daryl's eyes are anything to go by.

It hits her then that in this world of unpredictability and alliances born of chance and happenstance, Daryl and Andrea might have carved out something that is truly real and worth fighting for.

"She'll be okay, ya know." She says as she steers them through more of the forest. The clearing's in sight now, a few more feet and they'll feel the sun on their faces once more. She just hopes that Daryl finds what he's looking for. "Andrea, I mean. If anythin' happens."

"I know she will." Daryl says shortly.

Jenna isn't sure whether he's trying to convince her, or himself.

###

The sunlight comes upon them with surprising speed, and within minutes they're in a small clearing where Jenna had made her camp. Daryl's got to admit that its fairly well-situated: two rough roads to get in and out, not far from the highway, enough shade to block out the worst of the summer heat. The forests are probably full of food and he can hear the sounds of fresh running water.

Its just a shame that the grass is still stained red and bodies decompose in the heat.

He should have noticed the smell, really, but the aroma of decaying flesh is so commonplace and pungent regardless of where they are that he's long since grown accustomed to it.

"This the place?" He asks Jenna, who nods, her brows furrowed. "What is it?" He asks, bending down as he inspects the grass and the gravel road beyond, tracks making themselves visible through the grass and the dirt and the blood.

"Its …. There's more bodies here than when we left." She says, unsure of what the field is telling her.

"Looks like someone's been here after ya." Daryl says, moving towards the gravel road, his crossbow raised. A flash of … something goes through him as he sees an abandoned motorcycle on the road, lying on its side like an abandoned toy. Bodies of walkers lie all around it and there's a boot lying by the front tyre with a leg bone poking out of it, almost licked clean.

"Walkers." Jenna says, raising her shotgun and beginning to scan their surroundings.

Daryl moves further down the gravel, trepidation and fear unfurling in his stomach with every step. This does not look good. He's only seen tracks similar to this near farms and cattle ranches, when ranchers and farmers would herd their flock into pens or fields for grazing or slaughtering.

"Lots of 'em." He says grimly, backtracking to Jenna's position. "When did you leave here?" He asks.

She casts her gaze around the clearing as she tries to remember. "Few days, maybe more." She says. "I just …. I can't remember exactly. Time tends to bleed together when you're running." Her eyes follow the tracks that Daryl's seen, her eyes beginning to widen. "They're moving away from here." She says softly, backing away from the clearing and beginning to race towards the forest, Daryl matching her step for step.

"Towards the farm." He finishes for her.

They run at breakneck speed to Daryl's truck, thoughts of Merle lost in a fog of fear for the others.

###

"He ain't gonna get back any faster with your eye glued to that scope." Shane says in a bored tone as he watches Andrea constantly scan the forests beyond their watch post. Her anxiety over Daryl Dixon's making him tired.

"You just keep your eyes on your part of the forest." Andrea retorts. It's the first time they've been alone together since their encounter in his Hyundai and its weird to say the least. At least the weirdness is a distraction from the fear that's prickling at her stomach. The sun has long since set and they're gripped by all-encompassing blackness.

They should have been back by now.

"Ya know, they've probably made camp for the night." Shane says, pausing for a moment and Andrea hears the liquid swill of what can only be a bottle of something that definitely isn't water. When he speaks again his voice sounds slurred and relaxed. "Best hope they bought camping gear otherwise they'll be cold outside tonight." He says, obviously waiting for a reaction that Andrea's determined not to give him. "'course, they can always use that old survival technique of skin on skin contact." Shane carries on, the sneer evident in his voice. "'course, she's probably more Daryl's type, if you catch my drift."

Whatever he's about to say next is cut off as Andrea's slap rings out with a stinging sound. Shocked, Shane puts his hand to his face and drops his bottle on the floor and the scent of scotch fills the air. Its become something of a habit now, the others in their group hitting him. Maybe he should start taking the hint.

"I used to have sympathy for you." Andrea says, her voice shaking with rage. "After Rick came back, I felt sorry for you. I have no idea what it must be like for you, to see Lori pregnant with what could be your kid. But now …." She shakes her head and turns away.

Shane sighs and rubs the back of his head. "Sorry." He says sheepishly. "I just … I don't get it." He says honestly. "You and him. And now she's here and they're obviously the same …. If they come back and they're …. I just don't want ya to become like me." He says eventually.

"I'll never be like you." Andrea says flatly, shouldering her rifle once more. "And don't ever talk to me about Daryl again." She says hoarsely.

They pass the rest of their watch in silence, but Andrea can't help but think about Shane's words, which was of course, his intention. For the first time in a long time he sounded sincere and for that maybe she should be thankful: he doesn't want her to become so twisted by bitterness and jealousy that it blinds her to everything else. But it angers her the way he perceives Daryl, and her, and the way they are together, like its remotely like him and Lori or Lori and Rick or whatever it is he's implying. She may not be sure of many things in this world any more, but what she is sure of is what's going on with her and Daryl, and Daryl might be many things but he's also a man of his word. And he promised her that he'd be back.

Movement ahead of her startles her out of her inner thoughts and rantings. "Movement ahead!" She whispers. "Walkers." She tries to count but eventually gives up, her eye drifting away from the rifle scope and widening as she sees the herd heading for them. "Shane!" She exclaims, but he's already at her side, calling for Rick.

TBC …..


	24. Swarm

Swarm

Inspired by Florence + The Machine's Seven Devils.

Bit of an action-filled chapter, this one. Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: The Walking Dead belongs to Robert Kirkman and AMC. I don't own them and I just wrote this for fun, with no copyright intended.

###

So many. There's just _so many_.

Andrea's given up trying to count the herd long before she's even started; she knows as soon as she takes her eye away from the rifle scope that it's a futile gesture. Walkers crowd her vision for as far as she can see in this blackness, moving bodies drawn by smell, by noise, movement, by whatever it is that compels the reanimated dead to walk until their shoes turn to nothing and the flesh from their feet drags behind them in bloodied clumps. It's all she can do to stare and stare and stare some more: stare at the oncoming herd, stare at the never-ending morass of bodies shuffling towards them, stare at the empty road that bore Daryl away from her.

She knows that she's called for help, of course; can hear her voice roaring Shane's name as she feels her legs begin to move, moving backwards towards the RV ladder that leads to the ground below. Her feet move and the rifle clatters against her legs but she doesn't hear or feel it. All she hears is the blood rushing through her ears and the frantic _how many bullets-where's the ammo-where's Daryl-where's Daryl-where's Daryl_ that roars in her ears and her mind like a freight train.

Her feet hit the floor and that's all she needs to crash and burn out of her stupor.

The walkers have advanced further and move with more speed than Andrea remembers; she has to take out three just to get from the RV to the house. "Rick!" She shouts as she dashes up the front steps, not flinching as she hears gunfire roar in the background: shotgun shells. Shane.

She pauses as she ascends the steps, glancing back only once and just in time to see the RV begin to rock with the force of bodies surrounding it.

###

"Y'know, they could have passed right by them." Jenna reminds Daryl as the pair race through the forest. "Don't mean that just cos the herd was headin' that way, they're gonna stumble across our group."

"Yeah." Daryl says, not breaking stride as they pound through the forest. He's sweating beneath his vest and his shirt, sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes but he blinks it away, his eyes roaming constantly for any stray roamers or lurking walkers.

Thoughts of Merle are long forgotten. All he can think about are the others. And Andrea.

Andrea.

The boxes in his head rattle and tussle precariously, their contents threatening to spill out.

He grunts and pushes harder, searching for his truck.

###

"What's the gunfire!" Rick's halfways out the door as Andrea stumbles through it, rifle in hand.

"Walkers!" She gasps out, her eyes scanning the house, hoping, praying that Daryl's here, that he's just parked the truck and has come in through the house …. Nothing. No-one but the anxious faces of the other adults and the teary faces of the two children.

"How many?" Rick says, although as he steps onto the porch his eyes widen and Andrea doesn't need to tell him: he can see their undoing advance towards them. "Oh my god." He mumbles, stumbling back into the house and screaming at Shane to get off the RV.

"We need to get out of here." Andrea says as Rick slams and locks the doors behind him, gesturing that Dale kill the lights. Immediately the house is shrouded in darkness, only Andrea knows that the darkness won't save them this time. All that will save them is if they run.

Carol's voice trembles when she wails, "The trucks are parked on the other side of the house, under the kitchen roof."

"Then that's how we get out." Rick says softly, turning around to stare at the door when the sounds of the shotgun finally die out.

Lori grabs Carl and pulls him close, her eyes wide with fright. "Where's Shane?" She whispers, her eyes darting between Rick and Andrea before moving to the door. "Where's Shane?" She repeats, hysteria crowding out her voice.

"We've got to get out of here." Andrea says, leaving Rick to deal with his hysterical wife. She moves to the stairs and runs up them two at a time, Dale and Glenn in hot pursuit. "We need to get out of here before they tear the place out from under us."

"How many?" Dale asks softly as he follows her into her and Daryl's bedroom, his gaze oscillating between the still-rumpled sheets and the belongings that Andrea's now stuffing into her backpack.

"I don't know." She says, checking her pistol and praying that Rick's still got that bag of guns. "Lots. Too many to count."

Dale seems to digest this before asking, "Where's Daryl?"

###

"Come on!" Daryl shouts as he slams on the steering wheel, willing the truck to go faster. "Where the fuck are we!"

"We're on the highway, heading back to the farm." Jenna says evenly as she checks on their ammo once more.

"Didn' take this long last time." Time has, in fact, ceased to have all meaning for Daryl. He's measuring time in how much the truck's engine groans, how many road strips they churn up on the dark, empty highway. His ears strain to hear something, anything that indicates that the farm might be threatened.

They exchange glances when the first shots ring out.

If Jenna's remotely bothered by the fact that their group might be being eaten by walkers then she doesn't show it. Daryl wishes he could be like that; go back to being like that. It would be so much easier than carrying around a never-ending movie about games of I have never, quiet truck rides and quieter crying, of tousled blonde hair and rumpled sheets and secret smiles and I have never been lonely. It would be easier than the knife that's twisting around in his gut because all he can think is _not again-not again-not again_. He can't lose Andrea. Not after Merle. Not after Sophia. He can't fail her too.

Jenna's doing that mind-reading thing again. "She's gonna be okay." She says, her tone defiant and strong. "Ya know she's capable. Ya gave her instructions. She ain't an idiot. She's gonna be just fine."

Daryl shoots her a glare as he presses on the gas. "Thought ya said walkers would pass right by there?" He says.

###

Its not the noise that bothers Andrea, she reflects as she shimmies onto the kitchen roof, throwing her bag ahead of her. Its not the never-ending, low-lying moan that threatens to engulf the house, or the way their new home rattles on its moorings under the weight of the hands and bodies that press and tug. Its none of that.

It's the smell: rotting, decaying, long-dead flesh. The smell of a thousand corpses pushing against their house. The smell that will engulf and literally consume her if she doesn't keep moving.

She lands on the flat-bed of an old truck and feels the shocks run up her legs. Dale and Glenn were meant to be behind her but she can hear them inside, can hear Dale's rifle being fired again and again. Are the walkers already through the front door and in the house? She can't think about it when a walker grabs at her leg, but she kicks him free before he can get her, despatching him with a well-aimed shot to the head. Three more take his place before he hits the floor but she's through the back window of the cabin and in the driver's seat and moving before they can claw their way up the side of the truck.

The RV's gone as she swings the truck around, trying to draw the herd away from the house. The sounds of gunfire and the smell of powder fill the air and the truck's lights don't work and she feels like she's driving around blindfolded, knocking down walkers as though they're bowling pins. She's forgotten what its like to feel anything but fear-fuelled adrenaline and once to scream Daryl's name again and again and again until he hears her.

"Rick!" She calls into the foggy gloom as she swings the truck towards the house where she can see a cluster of familiar shapes clambering out of a back window, shielded by the outhouse containing Merle's motorcycle.

"Andrea!" Lori screams as Andrea pulls the truck to a stop. "Where's Glenn and Maggie and the others?"

"I don't know!" Andrea shouts as the other woman clambers into the truck's flat-bed, dragging Carl with her, followed by Carol. "Where's Rick?"

Lori looks down as she forces Carl into the relative safety of the cab. "He went to get Shane." She says softly.

###

"There - that exit!" Jenna shouts as a lone dirt track suddenly looms off the highway. "Hard right – and kill the lights!"

The track's bumpier than Daryl remembers, and the gears grind and moan and protest at the new terrain, but Daryl's not even listening to that. He's not watching the way the speed gauge veers upwards or Jenna's calling him to stop. He doesn't see any of it.

He just sees the farmhouse, the place he knew as home, ablaze in a cloud of too-hot flames and thick black smoke.

###

"We need to go back for Rick!" Lori screams at Andrea as the blonde former lawyer executes a sharp u-turn, heading away from the house, back towards the road.

Andrea shakes her head. "We need to get out of here!" She exclaims. "We can't stay here – look at this place! Rick wouldn't want you to stay here!"

All around, all she sees are walkers, of all shapes and sizes and both genders. There's still too many to count. In what feels like the distant background she can hear one bullet after another as someone – Maggie and Glenn probably, and T-Dog – empties what remains of their ammunition into the herd. She can't tell if it's doing anything; all she can focus on is trying to manoeuvre through the morass of bodies, trying not to glance at the dead hands that reach for the inhabitants in the cabin, and try not to think about where Daryl is. A part of her prays that he's on his way back, that he somehow knew that they were in trouble and will come through the herd on his motorcycle to save them, like he and Rick and Shane and Glenn did after their trip to Atlanta. But the motorcycle's in the garage and as much as Andrea wishes that Daryl was coming there's a larger part of her that hopes he's found Merle and they're somewhere far away from here and he won't see what's happening here, that he won't have to lose anyone else.

She's so busy trying to get the four of them to safety she doesn't see the flames until its nearly too late.

Somehow she's managed to go around in a large circle and finds herself facing the house once more. Except the house and its outbuildings are now engulfed in bright orange flames that lick up towards the roof and out of the windows. The smells of burning gas and burning flesh and the screams of the undead fill the air, but even when ablaze they won't stay dead: one of them, sensing movement ambles down the steps of the blazing property and bangs on her window, reaching for her.

"Get us out of here!" Lori shrieks as she claws Carl closer to her.

Slamming the truck into reverse, Andrea floors the accelerator and pushes the truck backwards, narrowly missing the green Hyundai that screams past her, Maggie, Glenn and T-Dog's eyes staring back at them and roaring at her to get moving.

Too late. The walker's broken through the window then, two more pushing and pulling the vehicle as they clamber into the truck's flat bed.

"Get out of the truck!" Lori shrieks as she fumbles for the passenger door, dragging Carl and Carol out in a tangle of limbs as Andrea shoots the window walker at point-blank range, scrabbling over the parking break as the walker's body collapses against the driver's door, flames licking at the metal.

She lands in a tangle of arms and legs and struggles to get up, but all she can see are legs and she doesn't know whose are dead and whose are alive so she rolls back under the truck, rolling and crawling until she sees clear black sky above and smells the smoke in the air. She's rolled the full length of the truck and is now staring at the flat bed which is full of walkers.

She doesn't hang around long enough to see them turn around, only long enough to see that the green Hyundai is gone and the flames are threatening to engulf the truck.

"Rick!" She calls as she stumbles away, groping blindly in the dark. "Shane!"

Her hands feel something smooth on the ground: Dale's rifle.

"Dale!" She half-sobs, half-cries out. "Glenn! Carol! Maggie! Rick! Daryl! DARYL!" She shrieks into the smoky, empty darkness, suddenly not afraid to show just how terrified she is and how panicked she feels.

There isn't time to be angry, or to mourn or rage against the unfairness of it all. Walkers stumble towards her and she only just dodges them. Without thought for where she's going to what's in store, she does the only thing she can: she runs into the forest.

###

"ANDREA!" Daryl shouts, out of the truck before its even stopped moving. "ANDREA! RICK! GLENN!"

A walker approaches him from nowhere then, all snapping jaws and reaching hands. He despatches it without breaking stride, not caring that his pistol draws another four because he can hear Jenna's shotgun and knows that she's handling it. But there's lots; _so many_ walkers that they just keep on coming and there's no respite and he prays that wherever the others are, they managed to get out before the herd came through.

"ANDREA!" He shouts again, his voice barely visible over the sound of the flames. Smoke licks at his throat and makes his eyes water. He can't get too close, the flames are so hot. As he stares at the flames for just a fraction of a second, he can't help but feel that more than the house is going up in flames.

"She isn't here!" Jenna shouts, her eyes on the truck that's ablaze and full of half-charred bodies. "None of them are! We have to get out of here!"

They're at the farmhouse for less than five minutes and Daryl's putting the truck in reverse, ignoring the dead hands that pound and pummel on the glass as he backs the truck out of the dirt road and heads back to the highway, his mind on the other dirt path and abandoned outbuildings where he hopes that Andrea's waiting.

###

The forest's so dark she can barely see once she leaves the orbit of light provided by the engulfed house. She runs without thought for where she's going, Daryl's instructions only a dim and distant memory. She can't even tell where the highway is from here, never mind the little dirt track where he said he would wait, where he urged her to wait. Where she's going to go as soon as she realises where she is and can fight her way free of this never-ending nightmare.

There are walkers everywhere; more than she can fight alone. She's down to her last three bullets and her knife when an arm grabs at her, its incredible warmth startling her. It's hot; too hot to be a walker. Meaning that it must be a person.

"Shane!" She cries out when reality asserts itself and she sees the bloodied face of the man she had once thought so much of. The man she had once shared something that didn't mean anything with. The man who had – without really meaning to – made her admit that Daryl meant something to her. But as she looks at the bloodied, torn, exhausted figure in front of her, that hot, sweaty day in his Hyundai feels so far away that she can't even remember who they were back then.

She clamps that thought down. She can't think about Daryl. Not now.

"Lori?" He manages to rasp out, sagging against a robust tree which offers them a modicum of safety. Its not much, but it might be enough for what he's trying to say. Something tells her that whatever he wants to say, he doesn't have much time to day it.

It doesn't take long for Andrea to see that Shane isn't going to make it. His left arm is one long streak of charred flesh and ugly red blisters, the sleeve of his t-shirt burned away to reveal badly-damaged skin. There's a large bite mark on his right forearm, his eyes already rolling into the back of his head. At his feet is the familiar, infamous bag of guns and Andrea fights the urge to weep with relief, although she can't help but feel that the price exacted from their group for this precious bag of guns has already been too high.

"Lori?" Shane presses again, his voice a dry rasp. "Carl?" His eyes are pleading and despite everything, Andrea can't bring herself to tell him the truth.

"I saw them." She says truthfully. She _had_ seen them. "Rick got them out, got them away from this place." It's a white lie but not much: there were no bodies by the time she got out from under the truck and the Hyundai had gone. She's just putting two and two together and making five. But it seems to satisfy Shane, for he sags against the tree in relief, his one, sole task since this whole mess started seemingly complete.

"Only wanted to keep them safe." He wheezes, coughing blood onto his black t-shirt.

"I know." Andrea says as she tries to sling his arm around her neck and drag them both to safety, not thinking about the fact that if the situation were reversed, he wouldn't do the same. The wound on his arm pulses against her clothes; she can feel the pounding through two layers of clothes and above their combined heartbeats.

He shrugs off her arm and nudges the bag of guns with his foot. "Take 'em." He says softly. "Take 'em and make a run for it. Find the others. Find Dixon." He says wryly.

The snarls and moans are getting closer now; if Andrea's going to go then she needs to go soon. "What about you?" She asks.

He holds up a spare clip for his pistol. "Twelve rounds, plus on in the chamber." He says.

Andrea opens her mouth, trying and failing to say more. She doesn't need to bother; Shane does it for her.

"Tell Rick …." He coughs again, blood and what looks like black bile filling his hand. He can't say anymore save for a meaningful gurgle and Andrea can tell the end isn't far for Shane.

"I will." Andrea says softly.

They stare at each other for a long moment, neither quite sure what to say. Andrea feels a tear of …. Something slip down her face as she opens and closes her mouth without so much as a word of comfort to offer. Eventually he waves her away and returns his attention to the approaching walkers and Andrea's gone with nothing more to say to Shane Walsh than a squeeze on his uninfected arm.

The gun bag bangs against her legs in time with Shane's shots; Andrea counts one, two, three, four, then a pause. Five, six and seven follow in quick succession and a rapid staccato of shots eight through twelve. Finally, and at such length that Andrea feels tears pour down her cheeks as she knows what's in all likelihood happening, the final shot rungs out into the darkness and the silence once more descends.

###

Daryl and Jenna are several kilometres away from the exit to the farm when they hear the frantic shots.

"Gunshots!" Jenna shouts, but Daryl's already slammed on the brakes and thrown the truck into reverse, heading for the shots.

_Come on Andrea_, he thinks, watching the treelines around him as he waits for her familiar figure to stumble out of the forest and onto the road, waving at him to stop. _Come on_.

He visibly jumps when the final shot rings out.

###

She runs as fast as her legs can carry her, away from the farmhouse, deeper into the forest. She can't remember what its like for her lungs not to burn, for her legs not to ache from running and the bag of guns that bangs against her legs. She's reloaded her pistol but managed to avoid using it so far, anxious not to draw more walkers to her route. She looks head, from side to side, backwards and forwards once more.

She's so busy looking around, she doesn't look where she's going.

Her knee crunches as she trips and slides and rolls down the wet, mulchy ravine, landing in an inglorious heap some twenty feet below her original route. The strap on the gun bag's tangled up in her legs and she bites her lip in fear as she struggles to untangled herself.

A walker appears then, stumbling towards her with long, ambling strides and outstretched arms. She despatches him cleanly but he's replaced by three, and then five more and her legs are still entangled. They're almost on her when they're blown back by something behind her. Or rather, someone. Someone with a high-calibre rifle and a deadly aim. Relief floods through Andrea as she turns around, expecting to see Dale, or T-Dog, or Glenn.

She's just not expecting the fleshy, pock-marked face that's standing behind her, a rifle slung across his handless right-arm.

"Hey, sugar tits." Merle Dixon drawls as he takes in her bedraggled figure and gives her a blatant once-over. "Miss me yet?"

TBC….

So I gave Shane a slightly nobler send-off than the show and the comics. I hope that's okay! And now Merle is back, huh?


	25. A Reunion, Sort Of

A Reunion, Sort Of

Heh, so another cliffy on that last chapter, huh? Now on with the next chapter!

Disclaimer: _The Walking Dead_ belongs to Robert Kirkman and AMC. I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended or material gain derived from it.

###

For the first few seconds, Andrea's so stunned she doesn't know what to do or say except lie on her back propped on her forearms and stare at the figure of Merle Dixon, looming over her like some twisted kind of saviour.

Despite everyone's poor assessment of Merle Dixon, she can't help but wonder if there's more than one Dixon with a saviour complex lurking in the state of Georgia.

Something tells her that might just be her wishful thinking.

Before she can say anything, Merle's rifle is raised again and he fires three shots in quick succession, the rifle barely jerking against his shoulder. It's black and mean-looking and he uses it like it's an extension of his arm which, she supposes, it probably is.

"Ya know how to use that thing?" He gestures to the pistol lying limply in her hand.

Still unable to form words, she can only nod, her hands moving numbly as she finally untangles her legs from the bag, which Merle slings over his shoulder with ease. He doesn't help her up, merely offers her another clip for her pistol, which she slips into the pocket on her jeans.

She finds her voice as he takes a step away before turning around, his eyebrows raised expectantly at her gurgling attempt at communication. "Daryl." She manages to blurt out. "He went looking for you. He …. He's still out there." She can hear the tremble in her voice at that last part and knows that if she can hear it then Merle can too.

They stare at each other for a long moment before Merle nods once. "Can ya walk n' talk, sugar tits?" He drawls, walking away.

She glares at him. "Its Andrea." She says as she falls into step with him. His strides are long like Daryl's and like her first encounter with the Dixon brothers he doesn't slow down to accommodate her shorter legs.

She ignores the little voice telling her that taking off into the forest with Merle Dixon and no ammunition is probably the worst idea she's had for a long time. The voice is undoubtedly right, but what's she going to do with twelve rounds of ammunition and a knife? Merle's got the guns and she's got no idea where she is, or where the others are.

"Heard gunshots. Thirteen of 'em." He says as they power through the forest, away from the farm and all they've left behind. "They yours?"

Branches scrape and tear at Andrea's face and she tastes the sharp tang of blood in her mouth. "Shane." She says sadly, before pushing it out of her mind. She doesn't want to be sad for Shane now and she knows that Merle will have no tolerance for it. Later, when all this is over and she has time to catch her breath, she can find somewhere quiet and cry for what's been lost.

Merle snorts. "That asshole lasted this long, huh? I'm impressed. He still knockin' boots with the tall lanky chick? Looked like Olive Oyl?"

Andrea sighs. Clearly Daryl wasn't the only observant Dixon in their camp, either. "You've got a lot to catch up on." She says, gripping her pistol tighter as she follows the older Dixon through the forest, forcing down the fear that festers in her gut.

###

They walk quickly, despatching walkers as quietly as they can to avoid the rest of the herd that is undoubtedly searching for them. Andrea doesn't point out that if walkers hear gunshots the likelihood is that the others will too, until she realises how dumb that sounds. The Hyundai left. It could be out of the state now for all she knows, and something tells her that while Merle Dixon is a dangerous asshole, he might be the least dangerous asshole in these woods tonight. While their chances aren't very good to begin with, they might be just that little bit better if they stick together.

Either that or she's royally screwing herself. But she honestly can't say what her chances would be like alone. So she walks.

They walk for what feels like miles, picking off walkers when they need to, not even pausing to catch their breath and Andrea's sweating by the time they stop for previous moments at a small shallow brook. The water's ice cold but she frantically slurps it down, desperate for anything to ease her parched throat.

Eventually it's too dark to see anything and they realise that they're going to have to stop somewhere soon. Or at least, that's what Andrea eventually tells Merle when her legs give way and he's twenty paces ahead of her before he realises she isn't behind him.

"Ya tired, sugar?" He drawls as he hauls her to her feet with enough force to leave bruises there the next day.

"We've been walking for miles." She wheezes, feeling her eyes begin to droop closed from sheer exhaustion even though the one thing she dares not do is close her eyes. She doesn't know what will be worse: what she sees when she closes them, or what she might see when she opens them.

They make camp in a small ditch some ten feet deep, flanked on one side by felled trees whose nearly-bare branches spill out in a makeshift roof above them. It's not much but it's enough to provide coverage and some protection. Andrea's whole body is shaking by the time she eases her back against the cold, damp wood and when she feels her eyes drift closed all she sees is soft white sheets still warm and scented with sweat and feels Daryl's breath on her neck and the warm sun on her face.

When she jerks open her eyes Merle's watching her carefully, the rifle cradled across his lap. He's asking no questions and Andrea offering no answers, but she can feel her tears trickling down her face, across her mouth and down her neck, pooling at the collar on her shirt. Her ears strain to hear something, anything to indicate where they are, but she hears nothing: no birds, no water, no vehicles. It's like they've fallen into oblivion. Maybe this is what hell is like.

She knows that she should be searching for the others, trying to get to the small dirt track with the abandoned buildings that Daryl was so insistent that she find. But she's tired, so tired, and the Hyundai was gone when she rolled out of the car and there were just _so many_ of them. She promises herself that she'll leave at first light, take the gun bag from Merle if he won't come with her. She doesn't want to think about what will happen if she takes him with her and they find the others.

She doesn't know how she'll tell Daryl if Merle won't come with her.

One thing the silence does do is give her opportunity to watch Merle, to look at him for the first time in weeks, to seem him through new eyes and to wonder if he sees something new in her, too. Is she that much altered since he last saw her, when he was handcuffed to a roof, roasting in the sun and incoherent from drugs? Can he not see how she's changed, how her perception of herself, and others' perceptions of her have changed? How her perceptions of his brother have changed? She wonders how much altered he is. He'd asked her to bump uglies and now he's unaware that she's been doing that exact thing with his brother for the past four weeks. He wonders if that's written across her face, or if it will be when Daryl's name is mentioned.

Her fingernails draw blood on her palms when she thinks about Daryl.

He's built a small fire, no more than a few sticks and a plume of smoke, but she's grateful for the modicum of warmth and the small flame bounces off his face, making him seem both more and less menacing to her. He's still wearing his leather vest and pants, his hair is just a touch longer and his right arm finishing in an ugly, painful-looking stump. He's nothing like Daryl in the face; his fleshy, pock-marked and weatherised skin makes Daryl's look baby-smooth in comparison, but now that she knows Daryl she can see similarities in Merle; in their gait, the way they hold themselves, sometimes in the way they watch others and their surroundings with careful scrutiny. There's something there that makes it obvious they're brothers. Physically there's little to choose between them now save for a couple of inches in height, but there's something about Merle that makes him seem bigger, makes him seen more menacing. With Daryl … she can see why she was intimidated by him but as she thinks about the way his hand fit against hers and the soft cotton on his shirt wet with her tears, she can't even remember why she was so afraid of him. With Merle …. She feels his eyes on her as he watches her watching him, and it's all she can do to not turn around and run in the other direction.

Eventually, he talks. Or rather, he entreats her to talk. "Spit it out." He says, barely glancing up from the gun bag. He's doing an inventory of their ammunition.

"Spit what out?" Andrea says, checking her own pistol. Ten bullets left. She closes her eyes and makes a mental note to keep one in the chamber, just in case.

"Ya been with my brother and Officer Friendly all this time? Musta missed something." He says idly, frowning as he stares at their ammo. It's a depressingly small pile and Andrea wonders how heavy it is, if she'd be able to slip away with it once he fell asleep, somehow make her way back to the highway and find Daryl or the others, maybe both, if she had very good luck. But at the same time, she wonders what would be worse: leaving Merle here, knowing how Daryl searched for him, or staying with him, finding the others and bringing him back into their fold.

The other alternative, of course is that she lives out the rest of her miserable existence with Merle Dixon until she glances down at the ammunition and realises that that isn't an option. No bag of ammo is worth that.

Andrea gropes in the dark for what she wants to say. "Officer Friendly's married to Olive Oyl." She manages to spit out.

She doesn't ask what he's been doing and he doesn't volunteer it. She doesn't want to know.

Merle guffaws into the dark, slapping his thigh. "Well I'll be damned!"

"Was a shock to us, too." Andrea can't help but agree.

Slowly, and bit by bit, she tells him some more, speaks a few more lines about what he's missed. He listens to it all, no hint of emotion on his face except when she mentions Sophia and even then it's nothing but a slight frown.

She doesn't tell him about Amy or Daryl until pressed.

"What about ya sister?" He asks, a gleam in his eye that Andrea wants to punch out.

Tears spring into her eyes very unexpectedly at the mention of Amy's name and Andrea realises then that she hasn't thought about Amy for days. It's hard, trying to carve out a place for her sister that's uniquely sad, not when everyone has lost someone: Jim, Jacqui, the others at camp she never got the chance to know, Jenner, Ed, Sophia, the Greenes they left behind at the farm, their fates unknown, now Shane and who knows else. It's hard to privilege Amy above others, hard to say that losing a sister is sadder than losing a daughter.

She wonders how many more they lost tonight, how many more they will lose until it's over. Will their group simply be replenished as more arrive and die like some twisted kind of natural selection?

It's not something she wants to think about so Andrea talks about her sister instead, not thinking too hard about the fact that she's cycled through the entire group and Merle's more interested in her sister than his own brother.

Her voice is surprisingly strong when she talks. "They went to search for you." She manages, determined that even if Merle can't be bothered to ask, she's damned well going to tell him that Daryl searched for him, just like she told him he searched for Sophia. "Daryl, Rick, T-Dog, Glenn."

Merle snorts at that but says nothing so she continues.

"While they were in Atlanta …. Walkers …. They came out of nowhere, like they did tonight. There were fewer of them but … there were enough." She says softly, closing her eyes for a split second and seeing bloodied blonde tresses and Daryl's pick axe and spiteful, devastated words flung in his face.

Merle seems to digest this and they're both quiet for a moment, neither one quite knowing what to say.

He speaks again. "What 'bout my brother?" He asks bluntly.

Andrea's hands tremble so badly she's glad that she's sitting on them. "What about him?"

"Ya left 'him 'til last." He says, watching her carefully. "Figured there was a reason. Ya gonna tell me he's dead, bit?"

Andrea grinds her teeth to stop herself from crying out. "I … I don't know." She says eventually, and she can hear the tremble in her own voice. "I, uh … he left yesterday, to look for you. Took Jenna with him; she said she'd seen you, knew where to look."

Merle's not interested in Jenna. "He come back?"

Andrea shakes her head frantically, praying that Merle can't see the tears that begin to stream silently down her cheeks. The one thing she dares not do is tell Merle about her and Daryl, not just because she doesn't think she can speak the words but because she's genuinely afraid of what he'll say or do when he finds out, how he'll react. "No." Is all she can manage.

Merle considers this before stretching out his long legs. He looks like he's warming his toes by the fire. "Lil' Darylena got 'imself lost in the forest one night." He says, closing his own eyes. "Damned stupid kid was lost for over a week."

"He told me." Andrea blurts out before she can stop herself, her mind racketing back to that walk in the woods during the search for Sophia. Daryl was the one person to listen to what she wanted, to ask her why she wanted to take her own life, why she found living such a tiresome habit, but now she doesn't want to think about that particular memory now because when she does she'll be hit by everything, by a tidal wave of adrift emotions for a man that she would never have cared about in the former world but now can't imagine life without.

Merle doesn't say anything more for several minutes. "Think we've lost 'em." He says. "Ya wanna take first watch, or should I?" When Andrea doesn't say anything, he smirks and carries on, looking at her in such a way that she knows right then and there that he's fully aware of just what she and his kid brother have been doing out here in abandoned Georgia farmhouses as the world implodes upon itself. "S'alright, sugar tits, us Dixon boys don' bite. Not hard. But then, ya prob'ly know that already."

He sleeps with his head on the gun bag, the ammunition safely zippered inside and his rifle cradled in his lap. His eyes snap open whenever she moves or breathes and the one thing she dares not do is fall asleep. Instead, she nestles herself in the space where the damp ditch wall meets the damp felled tree, watches the sleeping man in front of her and prays for daylight.

TBC …..


	26. Alone

Alone

A/N: Daryl's kinda pissed in this chapter, just a heads-up. Not sure how I feel about this one, but I'll post it anyway. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: The Walking Dead belongs to Robert Kirkman and AMC. I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended.

###

It's still dark when the truck rounds the corner, onto the dirt track whose name was whispered against lips at partings not meant to be permanent. It's quiet; too quiet: no birds, no animals picking through the forest, no movement. All that moves is the wind which blows dirt against Daryl's face as he kills the engine and slides from the driver's seat onto the ground.

The only good thing is that there's no walkers.

It takes Daryl minutes to move around his and Andrea's designated rendezvous, his eyes scanning for anything and finding nothing which is as good as its ominous. There's no tracks, no evidence of a fire or human activity. It means that she hasn't been here yet.

Or she isn't going to get here at all.

"Y'know, she might be lost in the forest, have hooked up with the others." He'd never pegged Jenna for a voice of optimism, but she's there all the same; half hanging out of the semi-open passenger door, her shotgun resting on the truck's roof. "Just 'cos she ain't here don't mean she's walker food."

"I know. She knew to come here." Daryl says, kicking at the dirt with his boot, half-walking to the truck before turning around, fighting the urge to throw his crossbow in the air in rage, anything that's movement and not standing staring at this decimated, lonely place. It's like bursting through that door to the roof in Atlanta to find nothing but a pair of bloodied handcuffs and his brother's hand. Eventually he screams, "ANDREA! ANDREA!" The last call comes out as a scream of grief and frustration and anger that the forest absorbs with question, comment or answer. Nothing moves, nothing breathes, _nothing_ changes.

Jenna doesn't say anything until he's back in the truck. "What do ya want to do?" She says as he grips and releases the steering wheel in a steady, slow movement. "I mean, Daryl, I get that ya wanna search for Andrea and if ya want I'll help ya. But …. I hate to say it but these woods must be crawlin' with walkers and I don't want to run into what's left of that herd."

Daryl grinds his teeth. He hates to admit it, but she's right. They don't have the food or the ammo to stay here and if the past twenty-four hours have taught him anything it's that these woods are anything but safe. That's exactly why he wants to stay, to charge into those woods and not stop until he finds Andrea, because he can't bear to think of someone else alone in these woods, which must by now be so full of people left behind and abandoned, of lost children and lost adults who wander into this forest and never really come out again. He wants to find her and pull her into his arms and talk words against her mouth that he has no right thinking and less right saying, words that he hadn't even wanted to scream until he saw the flames pouring out of that little bedroom above the kitchen.

They eventually leave a note wedged under what used to be a rocking chair, Daryl's hands tremble so badly as he writes that he can scarcely move the pen. It's written on the back of an old state road map with a felt pen that barely works, along with some water and some jerky. It won't be enough but if she can read it then she'll know to follow the road back to the highway, the one place Daryl's sure the others will be. They'll wait there for her, just like they did for Sophia.

###

Daryl has forgotten just what a depressing place the highway is until they're faced with a never-ending roadblock of the things people couldn't bear to leave behind.

"Jesus." Jenna breathes as they manoeuvre their way through the abandoned cars and half-emptied trucks. It's so messy that if someone else has been through here, they wouldn't know. "We never got this far out." She says as Daryl slows down again, using the truck's fender to nudge macabre items out of the way: a dirt bike, a push bike, so many strollers he feels his stomach roll.

"We should prob'ly stop, see if we can get some gas, supplies." He says as they clear the worst of it.

What he's not expecting is to see that familiar, hated green Hyundai parked on the clear side of the road, Carol's old estate car wedged next to it. There's no sign of the RV or Merle's bike, but hope flares in his chest and he begins to accelerate even though the green Hyundai means Shane and he made Andrea promise that she wouldn't go with Shane.

Shane's not there though, and as he inches closer he sees the familiar faces of his new family slowly edge into view: Rick and his family, Lori clutching Carl as though he's a lifeline. Carol's there too, her shirt covered in blood. Glenn and Maggie are also there, both wearing pained, wan expressions which only brighten when they see who is behind the wheel. There's no sign of Jenna's friends, Shane, T-Dog, Dale or Andrea.

Rick pulls Daryl into a firm hug before he's even out of the truck. He looks exhausted, his eyes so blue they're almost white against his grey skin and hair that's going increasingly salt-and-pepper. "Brother." He says as he squeezes Daryl like he hasn't seen him in years and Daryl's so stunned by the greeting he stumbles a little.

"Where are the others?" He asks, scanning the meagre crowd for blonde hair and blue-green eyes.

Rick's gaze dart to Jenna, who's loitering behind Daryl with an anxious expression. Rick's face tells her everything she's thinking but afraid to ask. "There … there were so many." He says lamely. "They came outta nowhere, we got scattered. The last time I saw them they were in one of the old trucks, backing out of the garage but …." Whatever he's about to say next die on his lips as Jenna turns on her heel and walks away, towards the edge of the abandoned highway, her back to the mass grave that they're standing on. The paltry morning sun bounces off of her figure and her hair as her shoulders slump and performs her own quiet grief ritual for the apocalyptic family that she'll probably never see again.

"Where's Andrea?" Daryl asks. He has a feeling that he isn't going to like what he hears but he wants to hear it from Rick. Wants to hear about how Mister Do the Right Thing has left behind someone else Daryl cares about. He likes Rick, he really does: respects him and likes him even though he's clearly got terrible taste in women and a kid that just won't do what he's told, which is why he knows that what Rick's going to tell him is going to hurt that much more: I got the woman I love out of that hellhole but didn't even stop to get the woman you love.

Rick shakes his head. "I don't know." He says finally. "Lori saw her last, said that she'd gotten her and Carl and Carol out, walkers came through the door of the truck. They got in the car and when they looked around, Andrea was gone."

Daryl doesn't say anything for a moment. He looks down, at the truck, at the forlorn faces of his new family – anywhere but Rick's face. His mind darts back to their first meeting: Rick's calm retelling of his encounter with Merle, the thrown string of squirrels, the knife, the illegal chokehold. His fingers flex, wishing that he had some squirrels to throw, could pull his knife without feeling like a jackass.

So he just shouts, instead.

"You left her!" Daryl explodes, grabbing Rick by the lapels on his jacket. "I left her with you!" He shouts, not caring who hears him. Behind him he can hear Lori crying and screaming, Carol imploring him to stop but he doesn't listen. "I LEFT HER WITH YOU! I told her to go with you if something happened – I TRUSTED HER WITH YOU, AND YOU FUCKING LEFT HER!"

"Last I saw her, she was running into the forest." Glenn pipes up then, his voice trembling with tears. "She … she was being chased, walkers everywhere."

"And what – you couldn't go after her!" Daryl snorts. "Y'all had cars and ammo and she was on foot with her pistol – what the hell is wrong with you people?" He drops Rick suddenly, as though the other man is on fire, and retreats to his truck, grabbing at his stuff. "I'm goin' back." He says, his words sounding horribly familiar as he talks. "So you tell me where you last saw her, so I can go get her!"

"I wouldn't advise that." Rick begins but Daryl doesn't want to hear it.

"Wouldn't advise that!" He repeats. "Wouldn't advise it! And what if it was Lori?" He snaps as he checks the ammo in his pistol and the bolts for his bow. "Ya left Merle, now ya left Andrea behind-" He shakes his head, about to continue with his tirade until a weakened but incredibly familiar voice stops him.

"Andrea's a capable woman, Daryl." Dale wheezes as he staggers out from the trunk of Carol's estate car, T-Dog following behind him. "I wouldn't write her off just yet."

"I ain't," Daryl's grip tightens on the crossbow in his hand to prevent him from dropping it as he stares at the old man in front of him. "Just thought she'd need a hand, is all."

To be sure, he hasn't known Dale for long but the older man has never seemed typically 'old' to him. He wore dumb hats and liked old books and used to tell stories about his wife and watches that he had to wind because it didn't have a battery, but he didn't seem old. He was just … Dale. And now, as he looks at Dale's grey, winkled flesh that's hanging off his bones, the white, wispy chest hair that's scarcely visible over the large white and bloody bandage wrapped around his middle, for the first time he sees an old man.

He stares at Rick, who says, "Ya see now why I didn't want to go traipsin' through the forest?" He says softly. "Got a bit of a situation here."

"What happened?" Daryl says softly. "Ya get bit?"

Dale laughs but it comes out as a bloodied wheeze. "I wish it had been that melodramatic." He says as he sinks into the estate car's driver's seat.

"So what happened?"

Dale closes his eyes and laugh-wheezes again. "You know, I really don't remember." He says softly, resting his head against the headrest. "One minute I was running down the stairs, shouting everyone to make for the cars. The next thing there's all this blood on my chest and the others are screaming."

Lori's voice is trembling when she fills in the rest. "Jack Jr. took a knife from the kitchen, to use against walkers." She says, looking down. "He ran through the house looking for his parents, saw Dale …." She lets her voice trail off at that.

"He stabbed Dale?" Daryl says flatly, shaking his head. Unbelievable. What kind of fucking idiots give their kid a knife when he's got no idea what to do with it? But then, as he looks at Rick and Lori and then at Carl, he really isn't surprised: he may not have had the best childhood and there's no way in hell he'd make a good dad but he knows that he'd be a damned sight better than Lori.

"We've been tryin' to find antibiotics in these cars." Rick says. "Its … it's good to see you, Daryl." He says finally, giving the man another hug.

"Ya. You too." Daryl says, because other things being equal, he's just glad that some of their group made it out in one piece.

Rick considers Daryl's face. "You're gonna go look for her, aren't you?" He says softly.

Daryl shrugs. "Ya even have to ask?" He says softly. "'s what I do, ain't it? Go out looking for people we leave behind?"

###

Andrea's dreams are taut and frightening: endless trees and endless running through mud that sucks her in. The smells of the dead and the dying and men pickled by booze and drugs. Daryl screaming her name. And hands: endlessly grabbing hands reaching for her clothes, her belt, tugging on her….

She wakes up with a yelp and a start, immediately reaching for the pistol that's cradled against her chest.

"Woah, where's the fire, lil' girl?" Merle says as he jumps back, almost landing in the ashes of the fire from the previous evening.

Andrea clutches at her chest as she forces her heart to slow. Her clothes are bathed in sweat and she's shivering from the cold. It takes a few seconds but the reality of her situation returns: the farm, the herd, Shane, Merle.

She chokes back a sob as she thinks about Daryl.

Merle's watching her closely. "Ya was cryin' out in ya sleep." He says finally. "Figured I'd better wake ya up 'fore ya brought what's left of that herd down on us."

Andrea wipes at her tears, not caring anymore if Merle sees them. She's not going to feel ashamed about crying over what she's lost, over the fact that she feels utterly alone. She's not going to see it as weakness that there are people in the world that she loves who she wants to be with, even if that person is his brother. The simple fact that they happen to share blood doesn't grant Merle some kind of bizarre monopoly over his brother.

They move soon after Andrea's awake and she's glad of the movement, glad to get her circulation moving and her blood pumping. Merle gives her one of the rifles after she shows him just how good a shot she is. "Watch the ammo." He says as she slings the rifle over her shoulder. "We ain't got that much." He takes point, she brings up the rear and they head deeper into the forest, deeper into the unknown.

He's quieter today, perhaps mulling over what she told him last night, perhaps musing on just what she cried out during her dreams. Either way she doesn't like it so she keeps just far enough away from him to bring her pistol up in his face should she need to. Now that she has ammunition and another gun she knows she should think about leaving him, telling him she needs to go take a pee break and make a run for it, but she knows it won't work. He'd probably take pleasure in making her piss in front of him and she's still got no idea where they are. Plus … as she stands behind him and watches the familiar gait, she feels her heart ache in a way it never has before and figures that maybe being here with Merle is better than being alone, for now. It makes her feel closer to Daryl as much as it makes her feel far away. Because Merle's got a little bit of Daryl in him somewhere, hasn't he? They must share some genetic markers, some traits that aren't anger. Or at least, she hopes so. Either way, she resolves that as soon as she's got her bearings, she's gone. She doesn't care how much ammo she does or doesn't have or what she thinks she's going to do. She'll go and find Daryl.

She isn't sure where they're headed but bit by bit, things become familiar until they stumble across something that makes her heart yelp, Daryl's words rushing back to her like blood pumping into her head: _Road forks off just before the last exit, dirt road, can't see it from the highway. There's some old buildings, brickwork, abandoned stuff. It ain't much but it's hidden from the highway. Stumbled across it the other day while I was huntin'. Anything happens, you get there, however you can and you wait for me. _

She doesn't want to get her hopes up until she sees the paper with her name written in bold black ink: Andrea: We are at the highway. Daryl.

His handwriting is all untidy capitals and rushed prose but it doesn't matter: he's alive and he's been here within the last twenty four hours. He's been looking for her. He hasn't given up hope. She feels her tears drip onto the paper as she stares at the note, smoothing out the paper, pressing it to her nose and smiling when she smells the familiar scent of his truck imprinted on the paper.

She's about to fold it up and tuck it into her pocket when Merle snatches it from her hand and reads the note. As he hands it back to her he fixes her with an ice-cold gaze. "What's been goin' on with you and my baby brother?" He says, his gaze flickering up and down her body.

Andrea swallows as she tucks the paper into her front pocket, Daryl's words richocheting around her brain: _do not stay if you think that it's dangerous, you got it?_

Suddenly, she feels very afraid.

"I don't think that's any of your business." She says with equal coldness. "Not when you abandoned him."

He emits a burst of sharp laughter. "I abandoned him? Lil girl, I think ya need to go back to that fancy school of yours and learn what fuckin' words mean!" He exclaims. "I didn' abandon him, sugar tits – y'all abandoned me!" He takes a step towards her and she takes a step back, gripping her pistol tightly. While she's shot more walkers than she cares to remember, she's never shot a live, breathing human before. But there's no doubt in her mind that if Merle Dixon pushes her, she'll put him down

"We didn't abandon you." She says steadily. "We went back to get you and you were gone."

"Yeah, after I sawed off my own fuckin' hand to get out!" He shouts.

"You left Daryl with us!" Andrea shouts. "You knew where we were camped and you just left him there!"

"He coulda come lookin' for me." He leers at her. "Guess I know now why he didn't. Ya been getting' cosy with lil' Darylina while I've been gone?" He says tauntingly, taking another step towards her.

"It's nothing to do with you." She says, taking another step away from him and fighting against the fear that's unfurling in her stomach.

"Ya think he cares about ya, writin' ya lil' love letters like this?" Merle says, gesturing to her purse. "Ya think cos y'all have been knockin' boots for a coupla weeks that you're gonna live happily ever-after?"

"Fuck off, Merle!" Andrea snaps.

"Let me tell ya somethin'," Merle says as he takes another step towards Andrea, his eyes glinting in the early sun. "Daryl don't care 'bout ya. He don't care 'bout ya cos he knows better. Knows better than to get involved with uppity lawyer Democrats and do-gooding Officer Friendlies. You ain't blood, ain't kin. Ya ain't anything. Dixons only care about Dixons, rest of the world can go to hell." He licks his lips then as he stares at her. "But then, maybe it ain't Daryl ya care about." He says softly, and Andrea feels naked as he looks at her. "Maybe ya just like Dixons. Figured that it's only fair that since ya already tried the kiddie version ya see what a real Dixon man can do-"

He takes another step then and its one step too far and within seconds he's staring down the barrel of Andrea's pistol. Her heart's pounding but her grip's steady as she pulls her gun on Daryl's brother. "That why you came back to get him, huh?" She says, ignoring the way his words sting. "So much for Dixons caring about Dixons – the only Dixon you care about is yourself!" She shakes her head. "You don't know anything about Daryl. Not a goddamned thing. He's changed since you left – he's more of a man than you'll ever be."

"That so?"

"You're damned right it is." Andrea says. "Now I'm going off to find him, and the others, and I'm taking those guns you got there. And you can either come with me and see what your brother's become, or you can do us all a favour and turn around, go back into the forest and never come out again."

"Ya wanna explain why ya got a gun stuck in my brother's face?" Daryl's voice kills their conversation stone dead then, and they both turn their heads to see the younger Dixon standing before them, his crossbow at his side. Jenna's with him, cradling her shotgun and she gives Andrea a grim smile.

"Good to see you're okay." She says in such a way that she knows exactly why Andrea's got a gun pointed at Merle Dixon's head.

Andrea feels all of her breath woosh out of her and her arm drops to her side then. "Daryl." She breathes.

She doesn't remember crossing the space between them, only the way he feels as she runs into him and throws her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his warm shoulder. His arms go around her almost immediately, followed by something warm that smells like him and Daryl's voice in her ear.

"Ya freezin', girl." He mumbles in her ear as he wraps his jacket around them both and guides them to his truck. "Ya comin', big brother?" He says to Merle, who's obviously still behind them. His voice isn't hostile, per se, but it isn't warm, either. It's just … there.

Merle cackles and hoots. "Ya got that right, baby brother!" He exclaims. "This is one reunion I ain't missin' for the world!"

TBC ….


	27. Three Words

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Three Words. 

Disclaimer: The Walking Dead belongs to AMC and Robert Kirkman, I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended.

###

Daryl's truck is built for three, but the four of them manage to squeeze in with little trouble and several approaching walkers.

They drive back to the highway in total silence, the only noise Jenna's voice giving quiet directions and quieter support. Andrea's hand squeezes his so tight that her knuckles are white and Daryl's beginning to lose feeling in his hand. He hasn't asked her about the night she spent in the forest with Merle, hasn't asked her what his brother did to make her pull a gun on him (Daryl might be many things but he isn't stupid. He knows that Merle will have done something. Back home, women pulling guns on Merle was a semi-weekly occurrence). He hasn't asked his brother where he's been, how he found himself in the forest bordering their new home, what he did or tried to do to Andrea and to Jenna that made the former pull a gun on him and the latter unsurprised by it.

That said, he can't help but feel his eyes flicker over the two women's heads (they might look completely different but Daryl can see the same strength in their gait and eyes now. How much have they both changed, he wonders as he slows down the truck to cut through the throng of abandoned cars and trucks as they pass the highway) to his brother. How has his brother changed in the weeks gone by since their hurried partings at the quarry campsite? How much has he changed? How does Merle look at him; is he that much altered in his brother's eyes? Is Andrea that much altered?

Rick waves them down with a relieved smile, one that quickly dies on his lips when he sees Merle's face through the dirty windshield. Already Daryl's beginning to wonder if bringin Merle back to camp was a good idea, but what were his alternatives?

"Well if it ain't Officer Friendly. And his little helper." Merle snorts as his eyes flicker from Rick to T-Dog and back again.

"Knock it off." Andrea's voice is little more than a snarl as Daryl eases the truck to a stop and they all pile out, glad to be out of the hot, cramped car.

"Andrea!" Maggie, Lori and Carol are on her in an instant and Andrea greets them warily, not quite sure what to say to the women she saved who in their turn left her behind. But she lets them lead her away, back towards the estate car where Daryl can see Dale's hunched-over frame.

"So you found her." Rick says, his words directed at Daryl but his gaze on Merle, who's approaching with careful, measured steps. "Merle."

"Officer Friendly."

Daryl's gaze darts to the estate car once more. "How's Dale?"

Rick shakes his head. "Not good. He needs a doctor."

"He ain't gonna get one." Daryl hates to point out the obvious, but he's good at it so he may as well say it.

"He's dead weight, man." Merle snorts as he begins stripping down and cleaning his rifle. "Leave him here, cut our losses. We need to get off this road."

"Wasn't aware you were a part of this group any more, Merle." Rick says.

"Found 'em both together." Daryl says, his gaze flickering to Andrea, the crown of her head barely visible as she talks to Dale and Carol.

"Saved that little girl's ass back there when you sorry pricks left her for dead." Merle says as he reassembles his rifle. "Got your purty bag of guns in the back of Daryl's truck, too."

"You're just a regular boy scout." Rick's voice is like steel.

"The thanks I get, too. Bitch pulled a gun on me first chance she got."

"Yeah, and I wonder why."

"Enough!" Daryl can't believe he's the one now playing peacemaker between Rick and his brother, less than five minutes since they climbed out of the truck. "We got the guns and two more able bodies, which is more than we had before. What's the plan?" He says to Rick.

The former Sheriff grinds his teeth and sets his jaw before speaking, his eyes never leaving Merle. "Same as it was before." He says. "Siphon as much gas and supplies as we can from the highway, make for Benning."

Merle shakes his head and snorts in derision. "That's the biggest loada bullshit I ever heard." He says.

"You got a better idea?" Rick challenges. "'Cos if you do, I'm, all ears."

Merle shrugs. "Fell in with some guys who'd come from Benning. There ain't nothing there ya want, if you catch my drift. Place was overrun long time ago."

Daryl watches a little more light flicker out of Rick's eyes as he digests his brother's revelation. "So Benning's out." He says.

"According to your brother."

"You callin' me a liar?"

"We need food, shelter, defences." Rick leans back against the hood of the nearest truck. "Winter's coming and we don't have any of those things."

"Wow, you're still real smart, huh." Merle retorts.

"Forage through the trucks, see if you can find a state map." Rick says. "Try and find something, anything that looks like shelter 'til we find some more supplies."

Merle rolls his eyes and mutters something unintelligible to them both before retreating back to Daryl's truck, where he's soon foraging in the flat bed for the bag of guns.

"Got it." Daryl nods at Rick's question, his gaze moving to Andrea. He's done his duty, done his bit for the group. Now he wants to see Andrea. He needs to see Andrea, see that she's okay, that she's really alive. He needs to bury his face in her hair, see and feel that she isn't a dream.

Rick follows his gaze. "We shouldn't have left her."

"I know."

"I'm sorry for leaving her."

"I know."

"You think it's really a good idea, bringing Merle back to camp like this."

Daryl's eyes flash with anger. "He's my brother. What the hell was I supposed to do? Leave him there?"

"He left us and he's a liability." Rick's words are harsh but true. "You want to tell me why Andrea pulled a gun on him?"

Daryl meets Rick's gaze. "I don't know."

"Well you find out, and you let me know." Rick's voice is like steel. "Because if he does just one thing, one thing to upset the balance in this group then I'll put him down."

"He's my brother."

"Oh, and what are we? What's Andrea to you?"

"He causes trouble, I'll deal with it myself." Of that Daryl is sure. He may not know exactly what happened between Andrea and his brother but once he finds out he intends to deal with it himself.

Rick considers this, obviously accepts it, for he takes Daryl's arm and tugs him away from the rest of the group, putting cars between them to give them some privacy. "There's something else." He says. "Something I need to talk to you about."

"So spit it out already."

"Something Jenner told me, at the CDC."

"That crazy old windbag?" Now Daryl's really intrigued.

"It's important."

###

"Are you alright?" Dale says to Andrea as Maggie takes his pulse. His skin is grey and perspiration beads his brow but he's shivering, swathed in all the blankets they can muster.

He's dying and all he can do is ask how she is?

Tears slip down Andrea's cheeks as she takes his hand in hers.

"I'm fine." She says as she sinks down next to him, the estate car groaning under their combined weights.

"You were out in that forest a long time."

"Daryl found me."

"That's not all he found." Carol says, a dark, fearful look crossing her face as her eyes flicker beyond the estate car. It doesn't take a mind reader to work out what – or who – she's referring to, but Carol hasn't had that look on her face since the quarry. Since Ed.

"Andrea ran into Merle Dixon in the woods." Lori says, materialising with a bowl of water. Its icy cold but its clean and she tries to wash the dirt off of Andrea's face.

Dale's face goes white at that. "Merle Dixon?"

"He's alive." Andrea says, shuddering as she thinks about that night, last night when she was too afraid to close her eyes yet more afraid to keep them open. "His usual charming self."

"And Daryl brought him back here?" Even in his weakened state, Daryl doesn't understand it. Andrea isn't sure she does, either.

"He said he was going to find him." Is just about all she can manage.

"He found him alright." Lori's torn between cleaning Andrea's face and scanning the forests for signs of movement.

Eventually, Andrea bats her hand away, exasperated that even now, at this critical juncture when their existence hangs by a thread like never before, Rick's stupid wife is trying to keep things clean. Is she oblivious to all that's going on around her? Eventually, realisation dawns: Lori's waiting. Searching for someone ... Shane. Even now, after all this time, after everything that's happened, she's still waiting for Shane, waiting for his return so their ridiculous triangle can continue.

"Shane isn't coming, Lori." She says flatly, not quite willing to say the rest. Is there any point? By this point, 'not coming' means the same thing, anyway.

Tears well up in Lori's eyes at Andrea's words, and for a moment she's very quiet, anxiously rubbing her stomach. "What happened?"

Andrea looks down, still afraid to both close her eyes and to keep them open. She doesn't want to relive that night, that horrible night in the forest where the world came apart at the seams. "Walkers." She manages after a few seconds' of struggled silence. "Lots of walkers. Too many."

Lori drops the cloth in the bowl and walks away, slinking into the green Hyundai for a few moments' solitude.

"Dale, what happened?" Andrea returns her attention to Dale. She wants to put her arms around him, around the kindly father figure who saved her all that time ago, who introduced her to Daryl and Merle, who brought their small family together and did everything to keep them human when they felt like their humanity was slipping away. Now, she can feel him slipping away, slipping through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. "Where are the others, Jenna's family?"

Dale shakes his head. "I don't know." He mumbles, his voice soft and sleepy. Eventually his breathing turns to snores and Andrea just sits and watches him, tears streaming silently down her face. How much things have changed since their last meeting.

There's a warm hand on her arm then and Andrea squints in the sun to find Jenna standing above her with a gas can.

"Let's get to work so we can get off of this road." She says, the grim hint of a smile playing out on her lips. Not until they're out of earshot does she speak again. "He hurt you?"

"No." Andrea shakes her head emphatically. "I didn't let it get that far."

"Good."

They stop at the first car they can find and to their relief manage to siphon some gas out of it. It isn't much, but it might just be enough. "He was frantic, y'know. Daryl. About you. He couldn't believe they'd left you behind."

Andrea can scarce believe it herself. "It was crazy." Is all she can manage. And it was. But did that mean that they couldn't stop for thirty seconds to help her? They've never been good at going after the people they lose or leave behind. To be sure, Rick makes the right noises and usually acts on them, but they usually leave that to Daryl, to find the things they need, or the things they leave behind. Even so, she shouldn't judge. She left Merle behind, after all, and she wasn't there last night, didn't see how crazy the situation got once she ran into the forest. All that matters to her is that she's back now, that she's back with Dale and Rick and Glen and Maggie and Daryl. Most of all, with Daryl.

Jenna's eyes flicker to the two figures who are intently talking, their voices nothing more than hoarse whispers and Daryl's white face. "Looks like they're catchin' up."

"We need a game plan." Andrea movies onto the next car, shaking her head when the tank comes up empty. "Something concrete where we can rest. We can't rely on this highway to give us what we need, the supplies we need to survive the winter."

Jenna's quiet for a few minutes as they move onto another vehicle, a hulking SUV with tinted windows and smashed windscreen and personalised tag. "There's a place, some ways from here, if we can get there." She says. "It's secure."

"How secure?"

Jenna's eyes are dark and stormy when she speaks. "Maximum security."

###

Later, when the proverbial and literal dust has settled, Daryl and Andrea manage to grab a moment alone.

They're in an RV that's eerily similar to Dale's, who is ensconced on the bed in the small bedroom, resting. The door is closed but unlocked but it's the first bit of privacy they've had so neither of them care. Lori, Rick and Carol are outside, cooking the few squirrels that Daryl shot that afternoon. Jenna and T-Dog are on the roof of the RV with Glen and Maggie. Merle's nowhere to be seen and that suits them both just fine.

He locks the door behind them and drags the blinds across the windows, giving them as much privacy as they can get. She stands in the middle of the room, reaching for him and his mouth finds hers and he kisses her with everything that he has, bending her backwards as he walks them towards the dining table and hoists her onto it, his hands and mouth crawling over every part of her body as she entangles her hands in his hair.

"I thought you were dead." She mumbles as he forces her hair back off her face, touching her with rough fingertips as though checking that she's really here.

"Thought you were dead." He kisses her again, her mouth intoxicating to him. Now that he thought he'd never see her again, he never wants to stop kissing her.

Eventually, their passion subsides and now that they're alone and they don't have to pretend to be strong, they just cling to each other, Andrea's arms and legs around Daryl's body as hot tears press themselves into his collar as she tells him about Shane, about the walkers, about the bag of guns, about Merle. She leaves nothing out, not even Merle's remark about Dixon men. When her tears are dry and it finally sinks in that they're reunited, Daryl speaks.

"Rick told me something." He says. "Jenner told him, in the CDC."

Andrea closes her eyes as she briefly remembers their sojourn to the CDC, that one night where she felt safe only to be rudely awakened the next day. "What is it?"

"Asked me to keep it secret but I … I gotta tell ya."

He's got her attention now. "Spit it out."

He meets her gaze when he says. "We're all infected."

She opens her mouth to speak, eventually finding words but they're the first ones that spring to mind, not the ones she meant to say.

"I love you."

TBC


	28. Three More Words

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Three More Words

A/N: It's been awhile, hasn't it?

Disclaimer: TWD belongs to Robert Kirkman and AMC. I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended.

###

For a long beat, they just stare at each other.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

Daryl's never been lost for words before – one of the perks of not saying much – but he is now. _I love you_.

He's never heard those words come from anyone but his Mamma and now they're being freely offered by Andrea. _Andrea_. He doesn't even know her last name but she's just told him that she loves him. Andrea with her clean smell and long blonde hair that shimmers in the sun, Andrea with the fancy college degrees and smart mouth and head full of smarter words and ideas.

Andrea who's looking at him like her world's just ended because he hasn't said it back. Because he hasn't said anything at all. He's just stood there with his mouth hanging open, trying to decide who of the pair of them has dropped the bigger bombshell.

To her credit she recovers quickly, her eyebrows shooting into her hair line as she says, "We're all infected?"

"Yeah." Daryl doesn't want to look at her. He can't look at her pretty face and see nothing but dashed hopes. It's all he's good for, Merle would say.

"But … how do you know?"

"Jenner, told Rick."

Andrea's neck is beginning to turn red, the way it does when she gets angry. "He's been sitting on this information for weeks and hasn't told us?"

She takes a step forwards, turns around, turns around again, reaches for the door handle, pulls back, eventually slumping against the wall, her hand at her mouth. Her fingers are shaking.

"Why didn't he tell us?"

"I don't know. Andrea, wait-"

Too late. Andrea's ripped the RV door open and is outside.

For such a tiny thing she's fast; Daryl's struggling to keep up with her. Not that he needs to worry about where she's going. He really wouldn't want to be Rick Grimes right about now.

Rick's talking to Lori, his voice low and urgent when Andrea barrels into him, shoving him with such force she off-balances him and he stumbles, landing hard against a car.

Lori's in her face in seconds. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What the hell do I think I'm doing?" Lori's taller than Andrea, but the way Andrea looks at the moment, she'd kill Lori and not even blink. "Perhaps you should be asking your husband the same question!"

"Andrea, now isn't the time-" Rick gives Daryl a betrayed glance, but Daryl isn't much in the mood to deal with Rick's attitude. Not at the moment. Not after he left Andrea behind. Not after he's sat on this news for weeks, not telling a soul.

"Oh really? Why don't you tell everyone what Jenner told you at the CDC, Rick?" Andrea folds her arms and glares at Rick. She's shaking with rage. "Why don't you tell everyone what you've been keeping from us all?"

"What's she talking about, Rick?" Lori turns to her husband, a fearful expression on her face.

"What's going on?" Glenn and Maggie arrive, Jenna in hot pursuit, hand on her ever-ready pistol, Merle bringing up the rear. Even he can tell that this is something big; his mouth's set in a firm, straight line, no sign of a wisecrack or smart remark.

Rick stares at each of their group in turn. "We're all infected." His voice is quiet, as though volume will lessen the impact. "Jenner … they were doing tests, in the CDC. I don't know how they know, but they know. I wanted to tell you all, but the timing … but now you know. It's not the bite, not the scratch, not the fever that spreads it. It's us. Something in our DNA, genetic makeup – I'm not a scientist."

"The architects of our own destruction." Andrea murmurs, her gaze on the RV. "Dale-"

Her knees sag and Daryl moves to help her but she holds her hand out, keeping him at arms' length. He pretends that doesn't hurt, the first time she's pushed him away since they've started doing whatever it is they're doing, but then she's just told him she loves him for the first time and he hasn't said a word about it.

"Now you know." Rick continues. "Now you know why I had to keep it secret. How are we supposed to fight it, fight what's in us?"

Its Merle who breaks the silence. "So what?"

"So what?" Lori repeats. "So what? Merle, have you listened to yourself?"

"He's right." Daryl finds his voice. "So now we know. Don't really change our current situation any. Still ain't got any food, any water, any shelter. Least now we know when someone dies, we have to put 'em down like we would a walker."

"Wait, how do we even know that Jenner was telling the truth?" Glenn says. "I mean, we weren't there long enough for him to show you anything definitive."

"He didn't get out a side show, if that's what you mean." Rick says.

"Right. So we don't have anything definitive to go on. We've got one man's word. A guy who had been cooped up alone for weeks and just wanted to check out."

Andrea's eyes are still on the RV. She wonders if Dale has heard any of this. Would he be at all surprised, that inside themselves is their own annihilation? He always wanted to believe the best in everyone. "Only one way to know for sure."

"Nothing is going to happen to Dale." Rick's voice is hard. "We'll get some medicine, find someplace safe."

"Safe?" Maggie snaps. "Nowhere's safe anymore, Rick. And what medicine are you talking about? Everywhere we've seen has been picked clean."

"Well we need to find someplace safe." Rick's eyes are on Lori, who's rubbing her belly, her face ashen. "There _has_ to be a sanctuary."

They begin to squabble, each voice getting louder and more argumentative than the other. Andrea sits on the hood of an abandoned car, a far-off look in her eye.

"Trouble in paradise, baby bro?" Merle's voice is soft in Daryl's ear.

"That ain't your business."

"Looks that way to me. Little Miss Lawyer got her panties in a bunch on that bonnet. She bored of ya yet, or you just showed her a side of you she don't much like? Why don't ya go over there and have a little reunion, leave your big bro to clean up the mess you people have made? Hey, Officer Friendly? Yo, Grimes?"

Rick turns around, surprised to hear Merle's voice drown out the others. "Something you want to say to me, Merle?"

"Y'all look like you could use some help."

"You offering?"

Merle's smirk widens just fractionally. He's enjoying this; Rick did handcuff him to a roof, after all. "Maybe."

Rick shakes his head. "I don't think we'll be taking any of your help."

"There's a place." Merle gets out his pocketknife and begins to prune his nails, grinning as everyone's eyes, including Daryl and Andrea's, come to rest on him. "I know it. Food, shelter, medicine. Help your boy Dale out."

"That so."

"Damned straight."

"How come you never mentioned this before?"

"Ya never asked."

"What place?" Daryl doesn't believe it, doesn't believe a word coming out of his brother's mouth. "I've driven from one end of this state to another since this mess began and I ain't seen no place like that."

"Well clearly you ain't lookin' hard enough." Merle's gaze flickers from Rick to Lori and back again. "Somethin' tells me you're interested. Or at least, Mrs. Officer Friendly will be in a couple months."

Lori and Rick's faces are grey and surprised and Daryl curses under his breath. People always underestimate Merle. Sometimes he thinks his brother is the smartest person he knows and since his mean streak's a mile wide and ten miles deep, it's a bad combination.

Rick eventually speaks. "You going to tell us what this place is?"

Daryl doesn't know if anyone else can see it, or if they're so desperate they're ignoring it, but Merle's grin is pure evil when he says, "A town. Woodbury."

TBC.


	29. Family

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Family

A/N: I haven't seen the S3 finale yet but I know what's coming. I just … I have no words except …. Why? Anyway, rest assured that that is NOT going to happen here. Daryl and Andrea are off the table. Everyone else … Fair game.

Disclaimer: The Walking Dead belongs to AMC and Robert Kirkman. I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended.

###

A town. Woodbury.

A town. Woodbury. Food. Medicine. Shelter.

A town. Woodbury.

Sanctuary.

It's a simple word, sanctuary: nine letters, four syllables. A safe haven, a port in a storm. A refuge, asylum from all the craziness that's out there. Or at least, that's what glimmers in everyone's eyes as the town's name rolls off of Merle's tongue like sweet syrup on a hot Georgia day.

"Woodbury." Rick's voice is raspy, he wipes his mouth, stares at Merle with betrayal and hope in his eyes. "Why didn't you tell us about this place before?"

"Well now, you all didn't give me much reason to, did you?" Merle resumes his nail pruning, the pieces fly off in all directions. How can one hand make so much mess, Andrea wonders? Her hair and nails haven't grown for as long as this hell's been going on.

"Didn't give you a reason-" Rick takes an angry step towards the elder Dixon, stopped only by Daryl who uses his weight to push the Grimes man back.

"Now ain't the time." He mutters, low enough for Andrea to hear, and as she turns her head she sees the others staring at Merle like he's offered them salvation. Which he has: Merle Dixon has offered them what Rick Grimes has yet to do. She can see it in their eyes, will be damned if, despite everything, she doesn't feel it a little herself. She doesn't know what Merle would have done to her in the woods if he'd had the chance, but she does know that he's offering them a path to safety, a path that Rick Grimes has utterly failed to provide.

"Yeah, Grimes, you heard me." Merle drawls. "Since I got here, y'all ain't been very neighbourly. In fact, got a mind to take my brother back, leave y'all out here to fend for yourselves."

"And what makes you think Daryl would go with you?" Andrea catches Daryl's gaze for a moment, a little hurt when he looks away. Is it wrong, to think about nothing but his lack of reciprocation at a time like this? How can he just stand there and say nothing when she tells him that she loves him?

She pushes it to the back of her mind. Apologising for telling him she feels would be apologising for speaking her mind, and Andrea has never, will never apologise for speaking her mind. And besides, in a world like this, why hold back when the next minute could be your last?

"I ain't goin' anywhere without everyone else." Daryl's eyes are on Andrea then, shining and bright and just as unreadable as they were when their paths first crossed that fateful hot Georgia summer day, when she felt her legs buckle on the highway amid pictures of the dead and Daryl caught her and promised to leave her there if she fell. How much things have changed. "We go together or we don't go at all, Merle."

Merle's face changes then, surprise and shock and something else curling around his craggy features. "Well then. Ain't that something. My baby brother finally decided to join civilisation. You gonna get yourself a Benz next, start drinking sweet tea on your back porch, paying taxes and sitting pretty?"

"Shut up." Rick snaps. "What about this town, Woodbury?"

"What 'bout it?"

"I ain't never heard of it. What all's there?"

Merle chews his lip, uses his shirt to clean his gleaming blade. "Food. Water. Medicine. Big walls, keep the walkers out. Guns. Nice neat little mowed lawns, flowers line up all in a row. No Officer Friendlies – maybe you could get yourself a new job."

"What about the people?"

"What 'bout 'em?"

"How many are there?"

Merle shrugs, looks like he's actually having to think instead of mock. "Forty, maybe fifty families."

"Families?" Lori looks hopeful then, Carl too. "You mean families like, other kids?"

"Do I look like a damned dictionary to you?"

"They won't just let us walk in." Jenna's got her hand on her pistol, her eyes never leaving the highway where they're parked. "You gonna tell us what the price of entry is?"

Merle shrugs, leers at her. "You wanna cross the river, you gotta pay the ferryman."

"Guess I left my bag of coins in my other jacket." Rick's hand is on his gun; Andrea almost wants him to use it. "Now tell us what we have to do."

###

"I don't like this." Jenna grabs Andrea as she's en route to Dale, still sat in that estate car. "Something stinks."

"That something's Merle Dixon." Andrea checks the ammunition for her gun, checks her knife, her mind on Daryl's words. She wants to be prepared in case she finds Dale and the worst happens.

"You really think this town would have survived this long if it weren't populated by the Merle Dixons of this world?" Jenna's dark eyes are pleading, imploring Andrea to listen. "That's assuming this town even exists in the first place? For all we know it could be a rouse, plan to lure us in. I heard things, out on the road." She swallows, looks at the dimming horizon. Her fingers curl around her wrist and she rubs at the skin with an absent touch. "You were lucky, running into Rick and the others. Not everyone else was that lucky."

"Merle would never suggest bringing Daryl into something dangerous. And Daryl would never put us in any danger."

"You so sure about that? Ain't you heard that term about blood being thicker than water?"

"Daryl's had plenty of opportunity to go back and search for Merle. He never did. His home's here now, with us. With me."

Jenna nods, a knowing look on her face. "I see." She brushes her hair out of her face, wipes the sweat from her brow. "I knew guys like Merle and Daryl, back in my home town. It wasn't much to look at; full of guys and girls with nothing much to do but drink or hunt or join the military, sometimes all three. You get to know people, you know? Not because you like 'em, but because there just ain't anything else to do and its not like anyone's gonna be leavin' unless its in a box. People there took care of their own, especially kin. Didn't matter if you hated 'em, if they beat you, shot you, burned you – blood is blood and kin is kin and at the end of the day, nothing else mattered."

"That was then. This is now. Daryl isn't the man he was before."

"And how do you know? You guys been involved in one of those perfect romances you see on cable, childhood sweethearts sharing a milkshake?"

Andrea's face is hot when she says, "My relationship with Daryl is none of your business. Daryl isn't the man he was when I first met him. His brother brought him down, made him less of a man than he was."

"I hope you're right." Jenna pulls a cigarette from her pocket; the flare of the matches casts sinister shadows on to her face. "Because if Merle Dixon calls this place a sanctuary, I don't want no part of it. Sooner take my chances out on the road and be done with it."

###

Daryl's fingers are steady when he presses them to Dale's neck: a pulse, thready and sluggish, but there all the same.

"What's your prognosis, Doctor?"

Daryl glances up to see Dale's face, sweaty and grey, staring down at him.

"Save your strength. Gonna be moving soon." Daryl moves back, catches a whiff of Dale's wound as he passes. Its wrapped in a secure bandage, but they don't have any other medicine and its beginning to smell like something died.

"Moving?"

"Merle's found us a town. Place to rest awhile. Woodbury."

Dale stares hard at Daryl, so hard he feels himself begin to wilt a little. He tries to remember the last conversation he had with the older man, finds himself coming up short. Andrea and Dale used to talk all the time, yakking and blabbing and filling the air with something other than silence. How did she manage it?

"Your brother knows somewhere." Dale's at least more polite about hiding his utter distain for Merle; Daryl almost wishes he didn't have the energy to fight back but really, what is there to say?

"Yeah. Merle says its safe."

"And you believe everything your brother says."

"'course I do. He's my brother, flesh and blood."

"I know that." Dale's eyes might be glassy, but they've moved from Daryl's eyes and are fixed on something over his shoulder; when Daryl looks down he sees that there's a large hole in his shirt, ugly jagged scars waving at the older man like a damned welcoming committee.

"They got medicine." Daryl pulls his shirt down, succeeds only in making the hole bigger. "Fresh sheets. Maybe even some of them pillow mints."

Dale laughs, blood bubbles out of his mouth and Daryl wants to wipe it away and then go find Andrea and tell her that they need to leave before she puts someone else that she loves in the ground.

"Pillow mints, huh? Well, you might have to eat mine for me. Or give it to Andrea." Dale reaches for Daryl's arm, his touch cold and clammy and feeling too close to death. "I heard what you were saying, about Jenner. About us all."

"We don't know if its true."

"Don't lie to me, Daryl. It isn't your style."

"I ain't lying."

"I know I'm dying, Daryl. I knew it the minute that kid stuck the knife in me. It's the damndest thing. I can feel it with every breath I take, each time I feel the sun on my face. But its okay, Daryl. I'll be with my wife, soon. Doesn't matter what happens to this body in this life. Just … don't let Andrea do it, if Jenner was right."

"She's gonna want to do that for you, Dale."

"I know. But she shouldn't have to. Not after Amy."

Daryl swallows. "I'll do it."

"I know you will." Dale stares at Daryl long and hard. "Do you remember when I brought Andrea back to camp? It was the damndest thing; those two girls were so lost outside the city."

"She still misses her sat nav."

"I'm sure she does. But look at her now, how far she's come. How far you've both come." Dale squeezes Daryl with strength he didn't know the older man possessed. "She's like my daughter. The daughter I never had. And you … its none of my business, Daryl, but … if this past few months have taught me anything, its that life is fleeting. We think we have all the time in the world, but we don't. The sun rises and sets and we'll never see that sunset again, never see that sunset or that summer or feel the cold of that winter. And we don't mind, because we know there's more coming. But when you know that you won't see any more sunsets …" He pauses, coughs, reaches into his pocket, comes away with a chain, gold tinkling in the light. "Take these, in case you need them."

Daryl looks at the offering: gold and diamonds and coloured gemstones twinkling in the light. "Dale-"

"It's okay if it isn't Andrea's style. If she doesn't want to wear it on her finger; it might be a little big. My wife had bigger hands than her. Just make sure she gets it. You'll need this one, too." With trembling fingers he reaches for his ring finger, tugs hard. "Got to have the set." He holds the ring out to Daryl, who takes it and holds it in his giant hand. Its heavy.

"Its none of my business, Daryl. I know that. Lord knows, Andrea's told me enough times to stop interfering in her life. But this is the last time. You care for Andrea. You're a good man. You make her happy. You ever want to use them, you go right on ahead."

###

Daryl's sitting in his truck when there's a bang at his window: Andrea's face in the gloom.

"I need you."

He doesn't need to ask when he sees the look on her face; the moonlight bounces off his tears.

"He was fine until a few minutes ago." She says as they race towards the car where Daryl last saw Dale. "He was sitting eating and drinking. Then he fell asleep and we can't wake him. Daryl, what if-"

Daryl pulls her into a hug, folds his arms around her as she starts to cry. "Hush now, darlin'." He says, surprised at the endearment. "Its gonna be fine."

They're all gathered around when Daryl and Andrea approach the car, Lori holding Dale's hand while Herschel takes his pulse. He shakes his head when he sees Daryl, and he prays that Andrea didn't see until he stops himself. Andrea's a big girl. She knows what's coming, can tell the end is near by the way she nudges Lori out the way and reaches for her pistol.

"It won't be long, now." Herschel whispers to Rick, who reaches for his wife and son and discreetly puts them behind him, using his body to shield them from what he thinks is coming. Glenn does the same with Maggie, the others moving until Daryl and Andrea are the only two in close proximity to Dale.

Herschel's right: it doesn't take long, and Daryl grips the rings Dale gave him, snug in his pocket until he can smell his own blood in the air. Dale stops breathing and Andrea takes his pulse, tears streaming down her cheeks when she shakes her head and says, "He's gone."

"Should put one in his head, just to be sure." Merle mutters.

"Shut up!" Rick mutters, but his hand's resting on his pistol all the same. Even Glenn and Maggie have their guns semi-raised, but nothing happens and eventually everyone else peels away to think about something other than another one of their family dying in this world, until it's just Andrea and Daryl.

###

They wait; the sun is slowly rising when the body that used to be Dale shifts and groans, its eyes slowly opening. The it groans and the sound is so awful that tears come to Daryl's eyes as he sees the look on Andrea's face.

The others come running as soon as they hear the noise; obviously no-one slept much that night. There's no noise from any of them, just open-mouthed shock and disbelieving stares that find their way to Rick's face. Even Lori looks betrayed, which is saying something coming from her.

Andrea moves first, thumbing the safety off her gun and raising it to Dale's head when Daryl's hand grips the barrel, slowly lowers the weapon.

"What are you doing?" She hisses between tears.

"Dale didn't want it to be you. Didn't want you to have to do it again."

"I can do it."

"I ain't sayin' you can't. Just sayin' Dale didn't want you to have to live with it. And neither do I."

She looks at him then, really, truly looks at him, and Daryl knows then, knows that he loves her, knows that she knows that he loves her. Even so, he figures it can't hurt to say it.

"Love ya, Andrea."

He turns to Dale's corpse before she replies, her hand finding its way into his stray one as he raises Andrea's pistol. He pauses for a moment, searching for anything that was Dale behind those grey-blue eyes of nothing but death. Of all people, he thought that Dale might fight the hardest, cling to his humanity with the most tenacity. But there's nothing left of Dale except the rings that sit in Daryl's pocket and the girl he loved like a daughter clinging to his hand. So all he can say is, "Sorry, brother" and pull the trigger.

So that's what he does.

TBC.


	30. Woodbury

Chapter Thirty: Woodbury

Disclaimer: TWD belongs to AMC and Robert Kirkman. I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended.

###

They put it to a vote, in the end.

"Usually I wouldn't do this." Rick says, standing at the focus of their little semi-circle, once more demanding their attention. "But this is something every one of us must decide for themselves. Winter's coming, and we don't have the supplies or the gas to stay on the road. We don't have anywhere to go to call a refuge. Merle has told us that there is a place where we can go, a place where we'll be welcomed. A town called Woodbury. We've scavenged together some maps, marked it. We reckon it's about two hours' drive from here. Now Lori and I have talked it over, and we're going. I'm sure ya'll can understand why. We want you to come, but we understand if y'all have some misgivings. So we'll put it to a vote. Those who want to come with us, be ready as soon as you can. Those who don't … we'll get as much gas for the RV as we can, give you as many supplies as we can find."

Andrea's wiping the dirt off her hands, picking at the skin. She and Daryl buried Dale that morning and she hasn't had the opportunity to wash her hands. Will they ever seem clean to her, again?

Jenna's the first to speak. "I ain't going."

Rick swallows, nods. "That's fair. You mind me asking why?"

"Not if you don't mind me telling you that I wouldn't trust Merle Dixon as far as I could throw him."

"Well that ain't very neighbourly, Jenna." Merle drawls.

"Good job we ain't neighbours, Merle."

Rick nods. "Well, we appreciate your honesty. I think we'll be worse off without you, but it's your choice."

"I'm going to Woodbury." Carol says. "T-Dog and I … we talked it over and we figure that a chance in this place is better than taking our chances out there. No offence, Jenna."

Jenna tips her head, shrugs. "None taken. Good luck to you."

"We're going too." Glenn slides his arm around Maggie's shoulders, his gaze on the remainder of the Greene family. "We can't stay on the road. Not with winter coming. Even if we stay in Woodbury just for a little while, its better than nothing."

Rick turns to Daryl, gaze flickers between him and Andrea. "What about you two?"

Andrea shifts her weight, glares at the floor, knows full well that Rick could hear their heated discussion throughout the morning and afternoon. As much as she's glad they're officially considered a 'two', neither of them have ever been quiet about making a point. "We talked about it."

"Ain't no talking from where I was sitting." Merle looks gleeful, like he's beaten her. "Just a load of shoutin'."

"Watch your mouth." Daryl looks less happy than Andrea. "We talked about it. Figured that since we don't have any better ideas, might as well follow y'all to Woodbury."

Jenna's eyebrows shoot into her hairline, but she doesn't look surprised. Instead, as is her habit, she waits until she's alone with one of them to make her point.

"Y'all be careful in Woodbury." She says as she and Daryl forage for gas for the RV. They've picked most of the cars dry now and are venturing deeper into the highway throng. No walkers so far, but they're all too mindful of the herd that appeared from nowhere and took so many. "Your brother ain't exactly high on my list of trustworthy people."

"Yeah, well, be that as it may, he's still my brother. Besides, think its me who should be wishing you luck. You got any idea where you're gonna go?"

Jenna opens a suitcase, begins to filter clothing into piles. "I heard about a place, way back when this all started." She says. "Out in the Southwest. Not too hot in the summer, not too cold in the winter. Figured I'd find someplace out there, real isolated town. See if I can last it out. Gotta be better than sitting in this sweatshop hellhole where the walkers just keep on coming."

Daryl nods, considers her plan. Its vague enough to be doable, and he's a little ashamed to think that he hadn't even considered leaving Georgia. America's a big place, stands to reason it won't be as bad in some places, especially underpopulated ones.

"Ain't a bad idea." He says. "Assuming you make it that far."

"I've survived worse." Jenna grabs the clothes she's picked, begins to sort medicine, tampons, bandages, anything that might be useful to her or to someone else for a trade. "Figured I'd stay on the backroads, away from the highways. Try and fall in with some people like you guys, maybe even get some of 'em to join me."

"Must like your own company."

Jenna shrugs. "Wasn't always like that. But I don't have anyone like you have Andrea. Not anymore."

Daryl catches the pained look on her face before she can hide it. In the past he would have agreed with Merle who argued that emotions were for pussies, that caring left you vulnerable, that you didn't need anyone but yourself. There's a part of him that still agrees, that knows his brother is right, on some level. But then he catches sight of Andrea siphoning petrol, remembers how she looked when they found that farmhouse with the bedroom with the rocker and those old photo albums that she used to love so much, and realises that he isn't weak or vulnerable. He's just lucky.

"Take care of her." Jenna's gaze is also on Andrea when Daryl turns his head. "You don't know anything about where your brother's taking you. Rick's so blinded by his wife's desperation that he might not see straight. He needs this place to be a sanctuary. You and Andrea don't."

"Maybe we all need sanctuary." He sounds more like Rick Grimes every day, Daryl thinks. "Isn't that what you're searching for?"

Jenna smiles, shakes her head. "Ain't you heard, Dixon? The world ended. No place is a sanctuary anymore."

They're ready to go much sooner than they anticipated: Jenna in the RV full of as many clothes and as much gas as she could find, the Grimes clan in their equally-laden Hyundai, Carol, T-Dog, Glenn and the Greenes in the estate car and Daryl and Andrea in his battered truck. The highway picked clean, cleared of as many cars as they could. Three maps, several containers full of gas and anything they think might be useful or valuable crammed between three vehicles. Merle's on point on his bike; Andrea can't work out how he manages to drive with that knife for a hand, but there's genuine delight on his face as he stands astride the bike once more.

Rick shakes Jenna's hand. "Be careful out there. You decide to turn around, come join us, I left a map on your passenger seat."

"I won't, but thanks all the same." She hugs Andrea, slips a folded piece of paper into her back pocket, shakes her head when Andrea calls her on it. "Later." She mouths.

The Grimes-Dixon convoy heads west while Jenna heads east, Andrea watches the RV grow smaller in the distance, fishes in her pocket for the paper.

"What's that you got there?" Daryl's eyes stray to Andrea's, catching them for a moment. Since he told her he loved her, the only words they've exchanged have been heated ones: what are they going to do? Should they carry on with Rick? Can they trust Merle? Should they try and strike out on their own? It sets her teeth on edge. Is this what being in love with Daryl means?

Andrea opens the paper. "Jenna gave it to me. Looks like a map. Somewhere in the Southwest – New Mexico, maybe Nevada."

"That where she's headed?"

"Who knows. Hope she gets there, wherever she ends up."

They drive in silence for a while, the only noise Merle's bike in the distance, a throaty rub churning up highway.

"Still time to turn around, catch her up." Daryl's voice is soft, almost drowned out by the bike and their own engine. Has he deliberately kept his voice that way, afraid that if he says it and Andrea hears it, it will make it more real, make his betrayal of his brother real, and when Andrea turns her head to see his profile she feels tears rise in her chest and her throat.

"Daryl."

"Just sayin'. You were pretty vocal about not wantin' to blindly follow Rick and Merle last night."

"I just think … Rick and Lori want this place to be a sanctuary." Andrea says. "They need it to be a sanctuary, whether it is or not. So do Carol and Glenn and Maggie and Herschel and T-Dog. And I don't blame them, not for a minute. I'm just saying that we don't need it the way they do." She swallows, looks down. "I don't need it the way I need you."

Daryl doesn't say anything, but his grip on the wheel tightens and his right hand slides from the wheel to her hand. He squeezes so hard she fears he'll break some bones.

"Ain't never had no-one say that to me before."

"Well its true." Andrea's gaze flickers to the convoy ahead, the backs of the heads of her friends and family, the new family she has right next to her in the truck. "I won't be separated from you again, Daryl. So if you trust your brother, trust him with Rick, with Lori – with me, then alright then."

Daryl doesn't say anything back, just grips the wheel harder; Andrea can almost hear his brain whirring, praying that he hasn't just mortgaged all their fates to his brother.

###

They drive for what feels like hours, the truck's fuel gage nearing empty when Merle pulls over, gestures that the rest of the Grimes convoy do the same.

"There a problem, Merle?" Rick winds down the Hyundai's window, gives the elder Dixon brother a near-murderous look.

"What's going on?" Andrea's out the truck while Daryl refills, her hand closed on her gun.

Merle tips his chin towards the road ahead of them. "Comin' up on Woodbury."

Rick stares at the map, stares back at Merle. "I ain't seen the signs."

"Trust me, its there. The Governor told us to remove all signs within a twenty-mile radius. Stop unwanted guests just droppin' in to shoot the shit, you get me?"

"The Governor?" Rick's expression hardens. "Why haven't you mentioned him before?"

Merle grins, walks back towards his bike. "You never asked."

Andrea watches Merle get back on his bike, rev the engine, gesture that they do the same. There's woods all around them, the curve just ahead hiding what's coming next. Her sixth sense prickles, sensing something not quite right. There's silence all around them: no wind, no birds, no rustling. Just heat, sweat that licks her temper, and that smell that they've all grown so used to; dead flesh, cooking in the heat.

"I don't like it." She says. "Something's wrong here."

"Oh I don't know." Rick reaches for his pistol, checks his ammunition. "We're driving along a road with no signs, heading God knows' where, being led by a guy who almost tried to kill us both. What's not to like?"

"Your decision to bring us here, Rick."

"Y'all made the decision to come here, Andrea. And besides, what would you have had me do?"

Rick's running low on bullets, the bag of guns dispersed between them all. Andrea's eyes strain to see through the foliage, still lush despite the time of year. The wind blows and its chilly, cooler than its been for awhile. She checks the sky, curses when she sees how close it is to the horizon. The longer they stand around here talking, the less likely they'll get anywhere before dark.

"I still don't like it."

"Everythin' okay?" Daryl's at her side, reassuringly bulky next to her. He smells of gas and sweat, moisture beading his brow. "Why we stopped?"

"We're not far from Woodbury." Andrea says.

"Ain't seen no signs."

"Apparently the Governor asked Merle to take them all down."

"The Governor?" Daryl looks unimpressed. "Who the hell's he?"

"I have no idea."

"Hey – Merle!" Daryl breaks into a light jog, moves towards his brother. "What's all this about signs and the Governor?"

"Relax, baby bro." Merle revs the bike's engine some more. "He's a good guy. Saved my life. Saved all the folks in Woodbury."

"He in the habit of taking in strays?"

Merle gives Daryl a smile that is anything but pleasant. "Relax, Daryl. I'm your ticket. I saved his life, too. He owes me one."

Daryl's brother pulls away from the trees then, the bike kicking up a mighty roar. Movement behind Daryl; a lone walker ambling towards him. Its too far away to be any real danger, and Daryl stalks back to the truck, cursing the whole way. There's five more walkers on the road by the time he slams the door shut and rolls up the windows.

"Did you find out who the Governor is?" Andrea fans herself with the map, her eyes glued to the towns and hamlets that litter the highway.

"Some guy who saved my brother's life, 'pparently."

"Well that doesn't fill me with confidence." Andrea's brow furrows as she traces the lines on the map. "Daryl, I don't like this. We haven't seen a single sign for this place for miles. It's on the map, but we took a wrong turn, doubled-back – something, I don't know. All I know is that I have no idea where we are."

"Still miss your sat nav, huh?"

She swats him with the map. "Now isn't the time for jokes about women drivers, Daryl."

"What do ya want me to do, Andrea?" He sounds irritated. "Ya want me to turn around, go back the way we came, try and track down Jenna and go on some damned westward trail like Lewis and Clark?"

"Don't get pissed at me, Daryl." Andrea snaps. "It isn't my brother who led us up this damned road. Shit." She glances around, feeling bored and resigned at the same time. "We need to move or we're going to lose Merle and pull every walker out of the forest down on top of us."

"Just keep coming, don't they?"

Andrea's quiet for a minute, her brain whirring. "Okay. Here's what we'll do." She says. "We'll do it Merle's way, for tonight. We'll go check out Woodbury, this Governor. We don't like it, we leave, bright and early, get as many hours of daylight between here and us. Sound fair?"

"One night." Daryl chews the two words like tobacco, working it around his mouth. "Good enough for me."

The rest of the Grimes convoy seem to have a similar plan, for their cars all pull away from the side of the road in unison, swerving and dodging to avoid the clusters of walkers that have been drawn by the vehicles. Soon they're gnarled figures in the coming dusk, reaching out with long-dead arms.

"How long do you think they stay like that?" Andrea's gaze is on them through the truck's rear window, thinking about the people they have lost, how glad she was that they ended Dale and Amy's suffering before they were condemned to the fate of the people behind them.

"The walkers?"

"Yeah, the walkers."

"Dunno. Reckon it's been four, five months since this whole thing happened. I ain't been keeping track, you know? And turn around, watch the road. You need to be my eyes on the map."

"Fat lot of good it's done us both."

"Ya doin' okay, Andrea." Daryl reaches for her hand, squeezes it. "One night. I heard ya."

The curve in the road seems to stretch for miles; its dark before they're through with it, and then suddenly they're upon a congested road, cars and trucks and even school buses. A train looms at Andrea's side, overgrown with moss and left to rust.

"Don't know about a town." Daryl says as he slows the truck down, manoeuvring between the vehicles which, upon closer inspection, have been arranged to allow one car to pass through at a time, if they know the way. "Looks more like a last stand to me."

They drive past a long-abandoned yellow school bus and then suddenly there's a wall. A twelve foot wall made of corrugated steel, fence panels. Buildings stand on either side, their windows boarded up with wood and bars. Enormous rubber tyres sit on the wall, held on with chains or rope. And there's people: ten of them, holding flaming torches and wielding weapons, staring down at them from the top of the wall.

"Jesus." Andrea mutters, peers up at the welcoming committee.

"I don't think J.C. lives here, Andrea."

The wall is actually a gate, Andrea can see that as the vehicles inch closer. She chances a glance out of the window and sees bodies, more than she can count and in various stages of decay. Some are missing heads, others have bullet holes in their foreheads. Most have been dragged off the road and into vehicles, or into the surrounding forest, but the smell isn't bad here. Maybe its disguised by the smells of motor oil and fire, which crowd the air in a pungent, dangerous combination.

There's voices ahead: Merle talking to someone called Martinez.

"C'mon, let us in!" The elder Dixon says. "They're civilians, one of 'em's pregnant! They got guns, ammo, gas, supplies! My brother's with 'em!"

"Your brother?" Martinez calls back. Andrea can't see his face, but his voice is deep and gruff; she imagines some ex-special forces meathead with pulsing biceps and tattoos. "You mean Daryl?"

"I ever mention any other brothers to you?"

"Sounds to me like you're famous here." Andrea murmurs.

Daryl snorts, drums his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes on the forest. "Must be my lucky day."

"No-one's bit here, Martinez." Merle continues. "These are good people, all spent time fighting the biters. Just let me talk to the Governor."

Martinez begins to say something, but something – or someone – cut him off. Andrea strains to hear the rest, is sure she hears Merle's voice some more, but then the gates creak open and the vehicles inch forwards. No going back now.

The truck looks and feels small and insignificant as they inch through the deep, thick gates, and Andrea can feel eyes on her the whole time. There's men in front of her, directing them to parking spots like they're going to a ball game or something, and Daryl eventually eases the truck to a stop outside a hardware store that – to Andrea's immense surprise – looks to actually have customers inside. Her hand moves to the door release and she slips out, her legs thankful for the break. She scans the crowd that is gathering, searching for Glenn, for Rick, for the rest of her group, finding them ahead. Merle is talking to someone, Rick standing with that wary expression on his face as he listens to the man's responses. He's tall and slim, that much Andrea can see, and his head quirks towards them as Rick talks, Andrea hearing her and Daryl's names. The man nods, shakes Rick's hand and then strides towards them, crossing the distance in three or four massive strides.

"I hear y'all are Andrea and Daryl." He extends his hand. Up close he's much taller than Andrea had thought, tall and lean, handsome in a pre-apocalyptic way. "I'm the Governor."

"Andrea." His hand is cool and firm, shakes her own with just enough force to be forceful, not like some men who feel like a handshake is an excuse to break bones. She likes that.

He smiles, displaying even, white teeth, holds her hand for a fraction longer than necessary before turning to Daryl. "Welcome to Woodbury."

TBC.


	31. Just One Night

Chapter Thirty-One: Woodbury

A/N: Its been awhile, hasn't it? I huge thank-you to the wonderful people who have read and reviewed and encouraged me to keep going with this story. It means so much. This is just a short filler chapter, more to come.

Disclaimer: The Walking Dead and its world belongs to Robert Kirkman and AMC. I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended.

###

They're offered a house to share with the others.

"This room's small, but its clean." Their guide says as she ushers them up a narrow flight of stairs. "Used to be the attic, if you can believe that."

"Like the damned stairs didn't give it away." Daryl mutters behind Andrea, cursing at the narrow wooden plinths leading to their new home.

"How many people live here in Woodbury?" Andrea says to their new host.

"We have seventy-three souls living here." Their guide is middle-aged and wiry and wearing a sweater with a family of rabbits on it, a string of pearls at her neck. Andrea swears the woman's hair is freshly-permed. "Most people are adults, but we have some kids. Enough for a class, if the freshmen don't mind sharing with the kindergarteners."

"I'm sure they don't." Andrea can't help but smile at that. Carl won't be able to get away with skipping his homework any more.

"This house has been empty for a while. Most people here tend to live on Main Street. You're about a five minute walk from there. We'll get you settled in for tonight; tomorrow the Governor'll want to see you, get to know what you're about. Its just standard procedure; he likes to do that for all the folks who come here. Even Merle's brother. Its thanks to him you all have this house. We have a waiting list for some properties, you know."

"This Governor, he your leader?" Daryl sounds tired and exasperated. Andrea can't blame him. She's full of nervous energy herself, anticipation for … something, curling around in her stomach.

"Has been as long as I've been here. He's tough but fair, willing to give everyone a fair chance if they're prepared to work. You can't say fairer than that."

Andrea doesn't know what to say to their guide other than, "I guess not," But their guide seems happy with that, for she opens an old wooden door with peeling paint and ushers them inside.

"Here you are. I know its small, but its clean. Safe, too. We've got patrols twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Even at Christmas."

"I feel safer already." Daryl dumps their stuff in the corner of their room, glances up and scans the room.

"Patrols or not, I'd feel safer with our weapons." Andrea says, dropping her bag on the floor.

Their guide – Andrea will be damned but she can't remember her name – shakes her head, looks fretful. "Oh dear, no. That's out of the question. The Governor's quite insistent about that. No weapons except to authorised personnel."

"There a list of authorised personnel?" Daryl says. "Cos if there is I'd sure like to see it, scratch my name at the bottom. Andrea's too."

"That's something you'll have to raise with the Governor." Their guide says, that fretful look on her face again. "He has the final say on things like that." She glances around, wipes her hands as if ridding herself of something dirty. "Well, here you are. There's a shower downstairs, end of the hall. Your friends should be settled in, now. You guys were lucky, finding Merle when you did. Way he tells it, he's been looking for you, Daryl, for weeks."

"Oh yeah, we feel real lucky."

Their guide stares at them both, as if she's trying to work something particularly troublesome out, but she's gone then, leaving behind the smell of fresh laundry and hairspray. Only once her footfalls fade to nothing does Andrea release a breath, long and slow and ragged.

"We need to speak to the Governor about getting our weapons back." Daryl unzips their bags, tosses their belongings on the bed. "We get ourselves square here, go talk to Rick, go see the Governor. I don't like hanging around this place with nothing but my good intentions and a wall between us and the walkers."

Andrea nods, wants to sink into the bed for a week and never come out. Instead, she moves to the window, peers out onto the small square outside. "Big windows here. They even mow the lawns. Somebody's planted flowers, Daryl. Dale and Amy and Sophia and everyone else were out there dying and these people were planting flowers. Jesus."

"Hard to imagine my brother here, now I've seen the place." Daryl opens his mouth to say more, abruptly shuts it when he hears boots on the stairs. "Not sure what I was expecting, but this sure ain't it."

"Daryl?" Rick's voice, muffled and tired. "Andrea? You guys, uh …. You able to talk?"

"C'mon in." Daryl opens the door, looks surprised when he sees Rick. Its like the man has aged years in the hour they've been there, like the tension and stress of the road were the only things holding back the ravages of time.

Rick scans the room, gives them a nervy, tired smile. "You guys settled in?"

"I guess. Andrea and I were plannin' on seein' the Governor, getting our weapons back."

"I heard that." Rick moves to the window, glances outside. "Guy who showed us our room said that there's a curfew. No movin' around after dark unless you're on patrol."

"A curfew?" Andrea can't believe it. "Seriously?"

"Makes sense, I guess." Rick shifts from one foot to another. "Saves tryin' to keep track of everyone." He looks down, and Andrea can tell what's coming, feel it in her bones. "Lori's already talkin' about staying." He says. "Carl can go back to school. The guy who showed us around said that there's a doctor who wants to talk to us tomorrow about the baby, 'pparently there's an old ultrasound machine rigged up to the generator, if ya can believe that. She says this is our salvation."

"How can she say that?" Andrea toes off her boots, suddenly very, very tired. "We've been here less than two hours."

Rick shakes his head. "All I know is that its clean and there's medicine for my pregnant wife and son. There's walls and patrols and other kids, and Carl needs other kids in his life. He needs other families. Lori needs other families. I … I need for us to be a family again."

Daryl catches Andrea's gaze, something unreadable flashing in the blue orbs. Eventually Andrea sighs, closes her eyes. Talking about it is pointless when they're all as beat as they are.

"We're going to see the Governor first thing tomorrow." She says. "We want our weapons back. If you want to come, you're welcome."

"Knock for me when you're ready. If I'm not up, wake me."

Rick's gone then, leaving behind a soft click as the door pulls shut.

"So Lori wants to stay, huh." Andrea flops onto the bed, exhaustion threatening her consciousness.

"Not real surprised, are you?"

Andrea feels the bed dip and groan, then Daryl's comforting bulk in the space next to her. "I guess not. I just wish they'd at least given it a half chance before agreeing to stay. I mean, any place where your brother feels at home doesn't exactly make me want to make myself comfortable. No offence. Have you seen Merle."

"No." Daryl's voice is quiet and a little sad. "Sonovabitch slithered off soon as the doors shut behind us." His hand strays to Andrea's side of the bed, takes some of her hair between his fingers and toys with the strands. "This whole place … I've been here less than an hour and it gives me the creeps. That pretty grass and flowers – who the hell has time to mow the lawnat the end of the world?"

"The Governor, apparently." Andre yawns, curls herself around Daryl's body, a cat with blonde hair in ratty jeans.

Daryl snorts, lets his hand drift to her shoulder. "'The hell kinda name is that?"

"One he gave himself, I bet." Andrea chews her lip, lets her nose find its way into the soft folds of Daryl's shirt. Its got that oft-worn smell to it, the forest and grass and something that's so intrinsically him that she smiles nuzzles closer.

"You … nuzzling me?" Daryl sounds amused and surprised all at once and when she glances up, he's staring at her with a lazy, half-closed eye.

"Nothing …. Just … can you remember the last time we did this, just lay here?"

"Musta been at that farmhouse, the one with the rocking chair you liked so much." Daryl pulls her closer; she feels his lips grace her temple and his hands slide under her shirt to gently stroke her back, his fingers ghosting her hip bone. His hand eventually settles there and he pulls her closer, rubbing slow circles on her flesh. "So we stay a night, huh?"

"Just one can't hurt. Its not like they'd let us out now. We've got a curfew now, remember?"

Daryl snorts into her hair. "Never had a curfew."

"Mine was ten pm on a school night, eleven on weekends. Of course, Amy had eleven on a school night and midnight at weekends."

"Musta been nice, having family who cared 'bout you like that."

"I guess. Didn't feel like it at the time."

"You know what makes me feel sixteen again?"

"What's that?"

A smile against her hair. "Sneakin' into a girl's room past curfew and makin' out."

Daryl falls asleep before Andrea, which isn't like him. In sleep he looks younger, more vulnerable, and Andrea sits by the window and stares at his face in the moonlight, well-washed sheets wrapped around her body. She can't remember the last time she saw Daryl like this, and decides right there that if they take nothing else from Woodbury, if they only stay for this one night and are on the road tomorrow, this is what she'll take: despite everything, she and Daryl are able to find just a little bit of peace, a little bit of privacy.

Her eyes drift away from Daryl's face, to the window outside. She strains in the dark to see something, anything move outside but except the patrols, its all quiet and asleep. What will the Woodburyites think of her, of Daryl, of Rick and Lori and Carl and Carol, T-Dog, Herschel and Beth and Maggie and Glen, their ragtag family? Will they be like Merle, think that Daryl is like Merle because they're blood, kin? Will they stop mowing their perfect lawns, lean on their mowers and stare at them as they walk by tomorrow morning on their way to see the Governor? Andrea smiles, lets her eyes move back to the man in the bed, the bare thigh poking out of the sheet and the errant left arm that's slipped the bed and whose fingers are tickling the floor, finds that she can't bring herself to care what they think of her, Daryl or the others.

There's movement outside, beyond the glass in the street below, and Andrea's fingers reach for the gun that should be at her waist but is now probably sitting in the Governor's apartment, lockbox, mansion, wherever it is that very tall guy with a just-right handshake lives in this crazy town with perfectly mowed lawns. She has to strain to see but there's someone down there, someone standing on the sidewalk, looking up into the window. Andrea pulls the sheet around her body, up around her shoulders as she peers closer, her nose bumping against the glass.

It's the silhouette she recognises first, although she doesn't know why. Maybe because she only met him a few hours ago, but she knows the tall, rangy frame, the leanly handsome face with eyes that hide so much. He's breaking his own curfew standing there, and something shivers along her bare skin as she looks closer, sees the tilt of his head as he stares up at her, holding steady until she breaks away first, yanking the drapes shut.

Suddenly cold, she retreats to bed, clambering over Daryl to reach the vacant bed space.

"Y'all right?" Daryl stirs as she slides down against him, pulling the sheets tight around them both. "You cold? You're tremblin' all over." Its now, when he's like this, half-asleep and forgetful with exhaustion, that he's the most unguarded with her, and he pulls her close like he's trying to fit them both under her skin.

"I'm fine." Andrea whispers against his bare flesh, feels the eyes on the sidewalk beneath her, and waits for sleep to come.

TBC


	32. The Governor

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Governor

Its been awhile. With the new season weeks from airing let's get back to it, shall we?

Disclaimer: The Walking Dead belongs to Robert Kirkman and AMC. I just wrote this for fun, with no copyright infringement intended.

###

Andrea ventures downstairs to find Merle helping himself to Lori's pancakes, his boots up on the only vacant chair at the table.

"Someone looks tired." He leers as she walks by. "My baby bro keep you up all night, sugar tits? Always did like to bore his dates."

"Knock it off." Daryl kicks Merle's legs off the chair, smiles at Andrea with his eyes if not his mouth. His plate's full of pancakes and fruit, and Andrea's mouth begins to water at the sights and the smells of a proper breakfast.

"Do these raspberries taste funny to you, Dad?" Carl throws one at Rick, who leans and catches it in his mouth and grins a raspberry red smile.

"Carl Grimes, mind you manners!" Lori scolds.

"Taste just fine to me, Carl." Rick chews and smiles, and Andrea has an image of a Grimes weekend breakfast, Rick reading the paper with Carl while Lori whips up a batch of pancakes. Freshly-made, no doubt. No boxed pancakes for the Grimeses.

"Ya just ain't used to the taste of fruit, Little Grimes." Merle grins and gestures to Lori with his coffee cup. "Been eating too many squirrels, stuff that comes outta a can. Here we always eat fresh. Five a day, come rain, hail or snow."

"Must be quite a chore, feeding that many people." Andrea helps herself to coffee, slides into the seat Daryl's cleared for her. She wants to put her hand on his arm, kiss his lips, but they've always been private and Daryl more so since Merle came back. Is he protecting her, or himself?

"Ain't as hard as ya think." Merle slurps the coffee Lori provides, gives her a leer of appreciation. "People got so used to livin off of crap ya get at a drive-in, buy in a box, heat up in the microwave. Here, we eat clean, take care of ourselves, helps us take care of each other."

Daryl snorts. "Says the guy who thought the sun rose and set on the back of a bacon double cheeseburger."

Merle winks at his brother, snatches some of Carl's raspberries. "Its a brave new world, bro. You take of yourself, you get sick less, need fewer trips to the doctors, get stronger, fight better. World like this, can't be too healthy or strong, you get me?"

"What are you doing here, Merle?" Andrea's disappointed to find that there's only powdered milk until she catches herself: this is the first cup of coffee, powdered milk or not, that she's had in months. It frightens her, how soon she slips back into old habits: pancakes and fruit, chatter at a kitchen table. What's happening to her? She sets the coffee down with a jolt, spilling hot liquid onto the table. She's survived this long without coffee, why start drinking it again now?

"Careful there, sweet cheeks." Merle smirks. "The Governor wants to see y'all. Wanted to see Officer Friendly first; I persuaded him that my brother was more important. 'course, Daryl wouldn't budge 'till you hauled ass downstairs. Guess you think you'll be joining him, huh?"

"I'm sure Daryl doesn't need me there to hold his hand, Merle." Andrea tries to smile sweetly, but her eyes see the Governor's shadowy frame beneath her window. "But if Daryl's going, so am I."

"Aww. Ain't that sweet." Merle stands, pushes his chair back. "C'mon then. If there's one thing the Governor hates, its people keepin' him waitin.'"

"Yeah, I bet its right up there with double bacon cheeseburgers." Daryl dumps his plate and cup in the sink, nods his thanks at Lori and a different kind of nod at Rick and follows Merle out the door.

The two brothers linger in the hallway; Andrea can't hear exactly what's said, but Daryl's yanked Merle's arm and their voices are low and urgent. Several times she spies the older Dixon's eyes flicker towards her, a smirk ever-present on his lips. Then Daryl's heads swivelled and he tips his head. "You comin'?"

"Wouldn't want to keep the Governor waiting." Rick scowls, slurps his coffee. Andrea wonders if he's put out at being bumped to second. How can he not? He led his people here, kept them safe, buried the others along the way. Now he's being told to wait at home like a good little boy until his new teacher's ready to see him.

Andrea doesn't look back as she walks towards Daryl, tries to look reassuring. Merle rolls his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut.

Despite his insistence that the Governor doesn't like to be kept waiting, Merle doesn't seem to be in much hurry to get to his house. They seem to take the long way around, strolling down manicured, neat streets, Merle attracting one wave and another 'Hello' and 'Good Morning' after the other. Andrea stares at the back of his head, stares at the men, women and children who bid him good morning like they're in some soap opera from years ago, tries to see if they see the monster she sees, the one who tried to murder Rick and do worse to her. Is she hallucinating? Has she slipped into some kind of parallel dimension? A glance at Daryl betrays little; the younger Dixon's face is a stony mask of nothingness, his eyes never still. She has an irrational urge to grab at his hand, feel his reassuring weight and know that she's still awake and alive and living in this weird island where the world has ended everywhere but here.

Merle hangs a left at a particularly well-maintained front lawn, a flag fluttering on a pole, and then Andrea and Daryl are faced with a pristine two-storey of red brick, complete with hanging baskets and sentry guards on either side of the front porch steps. The baskets flutter in the breeze, more well-maintained than most of the people Andrea has seen since the world ended, but the guards stare right through her as she passes them. The one on the left eyeballs Daryl, but the hunter keeps his gaze straight ahead, blue eyes betraying nothing.

The house is well-furnished and comfortable, with a couch and coffee table, an expansive dining table with eight chairs, a thick rug on the floor. The TV has been pushed to one side, but there are books and magazines on the table, a chess game partway complete. Merle ushers them upstairs, bootfalls loud on the bare stairs.

"Does the Governor live here alone?" Andrea says, feeling like she's being led to the Principal's office.

"For the most part. " Merle says. "People come and go all the time, though. Downstairs is his office. Upstairs .. well, you'll see."

At the top of the stairs is a door with another guard; Andrea recognises him from last night. Martinez. He's handsome in a rugged way, with thick dark hair and heavy black brows. He nods a greeting at Merle but his finger doesn't move from the trigger just above his heart.

"Hey, Martinez. Got my brother and his piece to see the Governor."

Martinez nods, gives Andrea the same blank look every other man's given her since she got here; its Daryl they're all interested in. "He's in with Milton right now, but go right on in. They're expecting you."

"Much obliged." Merle knocks once, twice, waits for the 'Enter!' before twisting the handle, pushing the door.

The door swings open without the theatrical creak Andrea was expecting, and she finds herself in … what looks like a young professional's loft apartment in some trendy downtown city district. Lots of natural light, a bright striped rug on the floor, wooden furniture, lots of books, even a hat stand and wall rug in the bedroom, barely visible through the half-closed door.

"Merle." That voice, soft and deep, like a warm caress on a cold day. "This must be your brother. And Andrea. Nice to see you again."

"Likewise." Andrea manages to say.

The Governor nods, smiles that smile of his, gestures that they come in. "Please, make yourselves at home. Merle tells me that you've all had quite the ordeal."

"We'd be interested in hearing your stories, once you've settled in."

Andrea's head swivels at the second voice, and she finds herself face to face with another man she hasn't met. This one's sat down at the kitchen table, a yellow legal pad and pen in front of him, button-down and khakis neatly pressed.

"Daryl, Andrea, this is Milton, an associate of mine." The Governor smiles, gestures that they sit. "Town wouldn't function without him. You sit still long enough he'll have your entire life history in that yellow notepad of his."

A faint blush stains Milton's cheeks, but he doesn't smile or look abashed. He doesn't even blink. "It's a … side project of mine, recording our group's histories. We have a map where everyone's from, and an account of their end of days, how they found themselves here. It's fascinating." Milton doesn't get up or offer to shake hands, which is probably just as well; Daryl looks like he'd rather suck the shit off of the Governor's shoes than shake hands with this man with the legal pad and soft hands and time for side projects.

"It is important to remember our history." The Governor says. "Those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it."

"I'm more interested in the present and the future, than the past, Governor." Andrea says. "Specifically, I'm more interested in getting our weapons back."

The Governor gestures that they sit while he moves to the kitchenette, comes away with cups and saucers. "We don't allow weapons within town limits."

"Our guide said there was a list of authorised personnel. How do we get on that list?"

The Governor smiles faintly. "And here I thought you two kids were only planning on staying one night. Coffee?"

Andrea tries to mask her surprise but fears she isn't as good an actor as Daryl, who has yet to open his mouth. Instead he's slouched in his chair like a disinterested schoolboy, watching the Governor with sharp eyes. If he's remembered that Merle is still here he makes no mention of it, and the older Dixon has done a scarily good job of melting into the scenery; when Andrea looks for him, he's at the window, cleaning his nails with his blade.

"Merle tells me that your group has seen some action, known some losses. I'm sorry for that. Seems like everyone has lost someone."

"End of the world tends to do that." Daryl says.

"That it does." The Governor pours coffee for everyone, saves himself for last. A plate of what look like homemade cookies appear from nowhere, caffeine and cinnamon in the air. Andrea's mouth begins to water.

"How long have you people lived like this?"

The Governor shrugs, takes a sip of coffee. "Must be several months now. Started off just a handful of us, securing a block here, a block there. Soon two blocks became ten, twenty. A handful of us became ten, thirty, fifty. Now we have seventy, eighty people living here."

"I saw children, on our way over."

The Governor smiles, looks like a proud father. "Our youngest is about two weeks old."

"Two weeks on Sunday." Milton speaks quietly, reminding Andrea that he's there. "Jamie Talbot, six pounds, five ounces. Born at three forty-three am to Joe and Marie Talbot. You cut the cord yourself."

The Governor tips his head, looks bashful. "Milton has a better head for facts and figures than I do. But I do know that our oldest celebrated her eightieth birthday last month."

"Lucky them." Daryl says, his fingers drumming on the counter, his coffee untouched. "Rick and I ran into some octogenarians in Atlanta. They weren't so lucky."

The Governor stares at him, unblinking. "There is an element of luck, certainly. But we work hard. We work together. We're a family. A person can't live out there alone and hope to make it. Man needs community." He reaches for a cookie, breaks one in half, the sweet flesh crumbling on the counter. "Merle tells me you're quite the hunter, Daryl. You'd certainly be welcome here with winter coming. We have our vegetable garden, but the surrounding stores are picked clean of anything decent."

"Merle told us about your … horticultural interests."

The Governor smiles at Andrea. "Surely you must see that taking care of ourselves isn't just about who we surround ourselves with? I've had children arrive here with Rickets, mothers and fathers malnourished, sick. How are we meant to survive this if we don't take care of ourselves? We have limited medicines, healthcare facilities – why not build a healthy immune system from the inside out, help ourselves to survive?"

"Healthy from the inside out, huh?" Daryl looks more amused than anything else. "Well that's one way to look at it."

The Governor's eyes narrow, but he carries on. "We welcome anyone willing to pull their weight. Not everyone is cut out to be soldiers, fighters." He turns to Andrea. "We have a school here. Not a living room with a few books, either. An actual high school with a library, resources. Parents drop their kids off at eight, pick them up at three. Monday's mathematics, Tuesday's humanities, Wednesday through to Thursday the sciences; we want to build a future here. How can we do that if our children aren't educated?"

"Children are the future." Milton says to Andrea. "We've got three women due within the next three months. Excluding your friend. More will follow, I'm sure. How else are we going to survive?"

"Milton keeps a record of everyone's background, education, experience." The Governor says. "We want to use all the resources that we have."

"Sounds like you've got everything figured out." Andrea says, surprised at how desperately she wanted to believe him. She makes herself look at Merle, at Daryl, think about Jenna's words and stare at the Governor's strange little acolyte. This is Woodbury, not fine words and something for everyone.

The Governor blushes, looks down. He looks bashful again; a reluctant king. "That's something of an overstatement. But why not stay, see for yourself? Curfew's not 'ill sundown. You look around, you don't like it, we'll refuel your truck for you and you can pick up your weapons on the way out, no harm done. All we ask is that you don't spread our location around. Not everyone out there is as … grateful, as you."

Andrea stares at Daryl, tries to catch his gaze but his eyes don't budge from the man opposite him. "I guess it couldn't hurt to look around, stay awhile."

The Governor smiles that smile he has, stares at them both from over the rim of his coffee cup. "I'm delighted to hear it."

TBC


End file.
